-BY   DERVEISTT. 


MRS.  ANN  S.'' STEPHENS, 


AUTHOR    OP    "FASHION    AND    FAMINE,"    "THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD," 

"THE   GIPSY'S  LEGACY;    OR,   THE  HEIRESS  OF   GREENHURST," 

ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


|  H I  a  Jr  tl  p  Ir  i  it : 

T.    B.    PETERSON    AND    BROTHERS, 

306     CHESTNUT     STREET. 


0 


5> 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1858,  by 

MRS.    ANN    S.    STEPHENS, 
III  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO   MYT   DEAR   FRIEND, 

MRS.    SAMUEL    BENEDICT, 

OP    WYOMING    VALLEY, 

THE  SCENE   IN    WHICH    THE    HISTORICAL  EVENTS   OF   MY   STORY   TRANSPIRED, 
THIS      BOOK 

IS    AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED. 

ANN    S.    STEPHENS, 

NEW  Yonk,  June  let,  1858. 


Ml749£ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TAGE 

THE  VALLEY  OP  "WYOMING,     . 

,           .           .          .           9 

CHAPTER  II. 

HOLY  INFLUENCES,  .       . 

,'       .        .        .14 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  CRUEL  ENLIGHTENMENT,  . 

,       .       ...      17 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  HEMLOCK  HOLLOW, 

,       .        .       .      21 

CHAPTER  V. 

.       .        .        .      27 

CHAPTER  VI. 

.       .       .        .      34 

CHAPTER  VII. 

CHAPTER   VIII. 
THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPEST,          ....        ......      47 

CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  WOODLAND  LODGE,  ........       •••••55 


CHAPTER  X. 


TUB  MISSIONARY'S  CABIN, 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

|  PAGE 

CATHARINE'S  CONFESSION, 71 

CHAPTER  XII. 
MY  FATHER'S  WARD, 11 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
MY  HUSBAND, .84 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  NEW  WORLD, 89 

CHAPTER  XV. 
STRUGGLES  AND  PENALTIES, 98 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE  STOLEN  VISIT, 103 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
THE  WEDDING  FESTIVAL, 109 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
DRKAMS  AND  FANTASIES, 116 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE  LOST  YEAR, 122 

CHAPTER   XX. 
THE  COTTAGE  AND  THE  WIPDERNESS, 131 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
QUEEN  ESTHER,       .       .       . •»...    134 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
THE  DEATH-FIRE  AND  THE  SACRIFICE, 189 


..  .                             CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  MARRIAGE  CONTRACT, ••=«'-.       .        .        .    144 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
SAVAGE  STATESMANSHIP, 153 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
THK  CASKET  OP  JEWELS,         .        .       ...        .       .       .       .       .       .        .    159 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

CHAPTER  XXYI. 

PAGE 

THE  CHERRY-TREE  SPRING, *  ••    165 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
THE  MERITED  LESSON, 173 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
AUNT  POLLY  CARTER, 1ST 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
THE  SERPENT  BRACELET, 201 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
THE  OLD  JOHNSON  HOUSE, 211 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
THE  LAKE  BY  STARLIGHT, 241 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
WALTER  BUTLER'S  CAPTURE,      .        . .248 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
THE  WIFE'S  STRUGGLE, -       ...       •       .259 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
HOUSEHOLD  TALK, 2CT 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
THE  JAIL  AT  ALBANY, 278' 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
THE  DISGUISED  SERVANT, 284 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
THE  GATHERING  STORM, 287 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
THB  UNEXPECTED  GUEST,        ...        .        .__     •       ......    2S9 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
THE  FIRST  SKIRMISH, 300 

CHAPTER  XL. 
THE  WEDDING  PRESENT, •  ,     .       .       .        .303 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

PAGE 

THE  CHIEF'S  BURIAL, 814 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
THE  WHITE  QUEEN'S  GIFT,     .  827 

CHAPTER  XLIIL    , 
TUB  WOMEN  AT  FORTY  FORT, t    832 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
TIIE  BATTLE-FIELD, 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
THE  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE,       ............    842 

CHAPTER  XLVL 
ASSAULT  AND  CONFLAGRATION,        ...........    847 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 
THE  WARNING  AND  FLIGHT,    .........  35g 


CHAPTER  XL  VIII. 
QUEEN  ESTHER'S  ROCK,   ..... 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 
THE  ISLAND  GRATE, 866 

CHAPTER  L. 
THE  CAPITULATION,          ..;...  opn 


CHAPTER  LI. 
THE  DOUBLE  WEDDING, 07-0 

CHAPTER  LII. 
THE  FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER, ^  87g 

CHAPTER  LIII. 

THE  LAST  SACRIFICE,    .  oo- 


CHAPTER  LIV. 
THE  INHERITANCE,  ........ 


CHAPTER  LV. 
THE  ASHES  OF  POWER,    ..... 


in 


MARY    DERWENT, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   VALLEY   OF   WYOMING. 

MONOCKONOK  ISLAND  lies  in  the  stream  of  the  Susquehanna, 
where  the  Valley  of  Wyoming  presents  its  greenest  fields  and 
most  level  banks  to  the  sunshine.  It  is  a  quiet  little  spot,  lying 
dreamily  in  the  river,  which  breaks  and  sparkles  around  it  with  a 
silvery  tumult.  The  Indians  have  gathered  up  the  music  of 
these  waters  in  a  name  that  will  live  forever — Monockonok — 
rapid  or  broken  waters.  You  scarcely  notice  the  island  amid 
the  luxuriant  scenery  of  Wyoming,  it  seems  so  insignificant  in 
its  prettiness.  Hedges  of  black  alder,  hazel  branches,  and  sedgy 
rushes  stand  in  thickets,  or  droop  in  garlands  along  its  shores. 
All  its  slopes  and  hollows  are  enamelled  with  wild  flowers  and 
mossy  grasses,  and  it  lies  serenely  in  its  girdle  of  flashing  waves, 
like  a  reef  of  emeralds  drifted  up  from  the  bed  of  the  stream. 

A  fine  view  is  obtained  from  this  island  up  and  down  the  river. 
Broad  flats  of  meadow-land  sweep  greenly  back  from  the  oppo 
site  shores,  bounded  a  mile  or  two  away  by  mountain  ranges, 
broken  with  rocky  cliffs  and  great  forest  trees.  These  hills, 
as  you  look  up  or  down  the  stream,  take  a  thousand  picturesque 
forms,  sometimes  crowding  towards  the  river  in  rugged  cliffs,  or 
consolidated  in  steep  precipices,  which  cast  their  shadows  half 

1* 


E  E  w  E  N  T  . 

across  the  valley.  Again  the  mountains  fall  back  with  a  majestic 
sweep,  leaving  many  a  luxuriant  corn-field  and  breezy  grove  open 
to  the  sight,  while  pretty  farm-houses,  filled  with  prosperous  life, 
are  scattered  everywhere  down  the  valley. 

A  few  miles  below  Monockonok,  between  a  curve  of  the  river 
and  a  picturesque  sweep  of  the  mountains,  lies  the  town  of 
Wilkesbarre,  a  gem  among  villages  set  in  a  haven  of  loveliness. 

Two  or  three  miles  higher  up  may  be  seen  the  town  of  Pitts- 
ton,  with  its  mines,  its  forges,  its  mills,  and  its  modern  dwelling- 
houses,  crowding  close  up  to  the  heart  of  the  valley,  in  which 
the  Lackawanna  and  the  Susquehanna  unite  among  exhaustless 
coal-beds  and  the  eternal  beat  of  human  industry. 

Thus  Wyoming  lies  at  this  day,  peacefully  cradled  in  its  wild 
mountains,  with  the  Susquehanna  sweeping  majestically  through 
its  green  fields,  its  slopes  clothed  with  orchards  and  heavy  with 
grain,  bounded  by  wild  precipices  and  deep  ravines,  in  which  the 
great  primeval  forest  trees  are  still  rooted. 

But  Wyoming  is  classical  ground,  and  my  pen  glides  timidly 
back  to  scenes  which  the  genius  of  a  great  poet  has  already 
given  to  the  world. 

Like  Campbell,  I  must  cast  aside  this  beautiful  picture  of  re 
fined  life,  and  go  back  to  Wyoming  when  it  first  knew  the  tread 
of  civilization.  Then  it  was  a  wild,  deep  hollow,  breaking 
through  the  heart  of  Luzerne,  and  losing  itself  in  the  wilderness 
that  spreads  southwestward  where  the  main  branches  of  the  Sus 
quehanna  unite. 

For  twenty  miles  below  the  Lackawanna  gap,  the  < valley, 
though  under  partial  cultivation  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury,  seemed  scarcely  more  than  an  unbroken  forest.  The 
beautiful  river  in  its  bosom  was  almost  hidden  beneath  the  huge 
black  walnuts,  the  elms  and  sycamores  that  crowded  to  its 
banks.  When  their  dead  foliage  lay  under  the  winter  snows/ 
huge  hemlocks  and  pines  spread  their  eternal  .green  among  the 
naked  branches,  giving  broader  glimpses  of  the  river,  but  still 
sheltering  it  with  verdure. 


THE     VALLEY     OF     WYOMING.  11 

But  with  all  this  beautiful  wildness,  the  strife  of  disputed  civi 
lization  had  already  been  felt  in  the  valley.  Indian  forages  were 
frequent,  and  the  Connecticut  settlers  had  been  twice  driven 
from  their  humble  dwellings  by  the  Pennsylvanians,  who  were 
restive  at  the  introduction  of  pioneers  from  the  neighboring 
States  into  this  fertile  region. 

The  blackened  ruins  of  a  dwelling  here  and  there,  left  evidence 
of  this  unnatural  contest,  while  stockades  and  block-houses  of 
recent  erection,  scattered  along  the  valley,  gave  picturesque 
proofs  of  continued  anxiety  and  peril. 

From  twenty  to  thirty  houses  occupied  the  spot  where  Wilkes- 
barre  now  stands,  while  log  cabins  were  grouped  near  the  forts, 
each  with  its  clearing,  its  young  fruit-orchard,  and  its  patch  of 
wheat  or  corn. 

Still  all  these  defences  and  clearings  made  but  little  inroad  on 
the  grandeur  of  the  scene.  The  smoke  that  occasionally  curled 
up  through  the  trees,  gave  evidence  of  an  extensive  clearing, 
that  was  scarcely  visible  in  the  dense  forest  around.  The  more 
important  settlements  were  far  apart,  and  with  the  forts  and 
stockades,  but  served  to  render  a  scene  of  wonderful  beauty  still 
more  interesting  from  the  glimpses  of  life  they  afforded. 

A  single  log  cabin,  sheltered  by  a  huge  old  elm,  with  a  slope 
of  grass  descending  to  the  water  in  front,  and  a  garden  in  the 
rear,  enriched  with  variously-tinted  vegetables,  and  made  cheer 
ful  by  a  few  holyhocks,  marigolds,  and  sun-flowers,  stood  like  a 
mammoth  bird's  nest  on  Monockonok  Island.  Wild  roses  and 
bittersweet  vines  crept  over  the  rough  logs  of  the  house,  and,  in 
the  summer  time,  its  little  windows  were  clouded  with  an  azure 
drapery  of  morning-glories,  dashed  with  crimson  glimpses  of  the 
scarlet  runners  that  crept  in  and  out,  tangling  their  dewy  bells 
with  the  golden  bittersweet  berries. 

Two  immense  black  walnuts,  with  their  mast-like  trunks  naked 
thirty  feet  high,  stood  back  from  the  house.  The  shore  was 
broken  up  with  clumps  of  sycamores,  oaks,  maples,  and  groups 
of  drooping  willows,  while  an  undergrowth  of  dogwood,  moun- 


12  MAKYDEKWENT. 

tain-ash  and  tamarisk  trees  chained  into  huge  garlands  by  frost 
grape-vines  and  wild  clematis,  were  seen  in  picturesque  leafiness 
along  the  banks. 

This  log  cabin  had  been  built  years  before,  by  a  young  man 
who  came  with  his  mother  and  his  two  little  orphan  girls  to  seek 
a  home,  and  hide  the  deep  grief  occasioned  by  the  loss  of  his 
wife  in  the  wilderness.  Derwent  took  up  his  residence  in  Wyo 
ming  with  the  New  England  settlers  on  their  second  return  to 
the  valley,  when  it  was  almost  as  much  inhabited  by  the  Indians 
as  the  whites. 

With  that  intuitive  taste  which  seizes  upon  the  beautiful 
wherever  it  is  found,  Derwent  selected  the  fairy  island  for  his 
home.  All  the  sympathies  of  humanity  struck  deep,  and  brought 
forth  pleasant  fruit  among  these  hardy  settlers  ;  and  they  came 
up  from  along  shore,  even  from  Wilkesbarre,  for  a  grand  log 
rolling,  which  ended  in  the  rustic  cabin  we  have  described. 

Nay,  in  consideration  of  his  feebleness,  these  good  neighbors 
came  many  days,  and  made  considerable  inroads  into  the  forest, 
which  covered  the  flat  that  lies  westward  from  the  island,  and 
almost  like  magic  the  young  man  saw  a  field  of  wheat  waving  on 
the  banks  of  the  river,  where  only  a  season  before  the  forest  had 
gathered  thickest. 

Derwent  struggled  manfully  in  his  new  enterprise,  but  it  was 
with  a  broken  spirit  and  by  stern  moral  force  alone.  His  health, 
always  delicate,  sunk  beneath  the  labor  of  establishing  a  new 
home,  and  though  he  worked  on  month  by  month,  it  was  as  a 
pilgrim  toils  toward  a  shrine,  patiently  and  with  endurance 
rather  than  hope. 

But  with  all  his  languor  the  young  man  found  strength  to  beau 
tify  his  little  domain.  Shrubs  and  young  trees  were  brought 
from  the  older  settlements.  The  native  fruit  trees  that  grew  in 
abundance  among  the  rocks  and  on  the  margin  of  the  river, 
were  transplanted  to  the  island,  and  arranged  singly  or  in  groups. 
The  brushwood  and  stinted  shrubs  were  cleared  away,  and  a  few- 
years  after,  when  the  trees  were  burdened  with  fruit ;  when  the 


THE     VALLEY     OF     WYOMING.  13 

apples  hung  in  crimson  clusters  on  the  bough  ;  when  the  peach, 
the  purple  grape,  and  the  wild  plum  blushed  together  and 
ripened  in  the  same  sunshine,  this  little  island  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  a  miniature  garden  of  the  East,  lost  among  the  pic 
turesque  scenery  of  our  colder  climate. 

Two  little  girls  formed  the  sunshine  of  this  humble  family, 
and  the  fairy  island  was  made  brighter  by  their  pleasant  voices 
and  graceful  ways,  as  it  was  by  the  wild  birds  that  haunted  it 
with  music.  In  the  great  indulgence  of  the  invalid  father,  and 
the  active  love  of  that  dear  old  grandmother,  they  had  early  lost 
all  sense  of  orphanage,  and  were  happy  as  the  wild  birds,  free  as 
the  striped  squirrels  that  peeped  at  them  from  the  branches  of  the 
black  walnut  trees  where  they  loved  to  play. 

Very  different  were  these  two  children  from  infancy  up.  Jane, 
the  youngest,  was  a  bright,  happy  little  creature,  full  of  fun, 
eager  for  a  frolic,  and  heedless  of  everything  else  ;  endowed  with 
common-place  goodness  and  a  pleasant  temper,  she  was  simply  a 
bright,  lovable  child.  But  Mary,  who  seemed  younger  by  half 
than  her  robust  sister,  was  so  fragile,  so  delicate,  that  you 
dreaded  to  see  the  very  winds  of  heaven  blow  upon  her,  even 
when  they  left  the  spring  blossoms  unhurt.  Her  large  wistful 
eyes  were  full  of  earnestness.  She  was  so  fair,  so  fragile,  sway 
ing  as  she  walked  like  a  flower  too  heavy  for  its  stem,  and  with 
that  look  of  unutterable  sweetness  for  ever  about  the  little  mouth. 
Indeed,  I  might  as  well  attempt  to  describe  a  spirit,  as  this  angel 
child,  with  that  depth  of  look,  that  fair  bent  form,  and  the  frag 
ments  of  strange  thought  that  sometimes  fell  from  her  lips. 
With  Derwent  Little  Mary  was  an  object  of  singular  tenderness, 
while  the  force  and  life  of  his  warmer  affections  went  to  the 
younger  child.  He  was  their  only  teacher,  and  during  the  years 
that  he  lived  it  was  a  pleasant  recreation  to  give  them  such  in 
struction  as  his  own  rather  superior  attainments  afforded. 

Thus  in  primitive  happiness  the  little  family  lived  till  Mary 
passed  gently  out  of  her  childhood.  There  was  little  visiting 
among  the  pioneers,  and  a  stranger  seldom  made  way  to  Mo- 


14:  M  A  K  Y     D  E  K  W  E  N  T  . 

nockonok.  An  Indian  sometimes  touched  the  island  with  his 
canoe  in  his  progress  down  the  river  ;  but  this  was  always  a 
happy  event  to  the  children,  who  received  the  savages  with 
childish  admiration,  as  if  they  had  been  orioles  or  golden  robbins. 
At  the  sight  of  a  canoe,  Jane  would  run  gleefully  to  the  river, 
waving  kisses  to  the  savage  with  her  hand,  and  flaunting  out  her 
apron  as  a  signal  to  win  him  shoreward.  It  was  a  singular  fact, 
but  the  Indians  seldom  obeyed  these  signals  unless  Mary  was  by 
her  side.  A  single  gleam  of  her  golden  hair — a  glimpse  of  her 
bent  form — would  prove  more  effectual  than  all  her  sister's  pretty 
wiles. 

Why  did  these  savages  come  so  readily  at  her  look  ?  What 
was  the  meaning  of  the  strange  homage  with  which  they  ap 
proached  her  ?  Why  did  they  never  touch  her  dress,  or  smooth 
her  hair,  or  give  her  any  of  those  wild  marks  of  liking  which 
Jane  received  so  cheerfully  ?  Why  did  they  lay  eagles'  plumes 
and  the  skins  of  flame-colored  birds  at  her  feet,  with  so  much 
humility  ?  Mary  could  never  comprehend  this,  but  it  filled  her 
with  vague  awe,  while  the  savages  went  away  thoughtfully,  like 
men  filled  with  a  spirit  of  worship. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HOLY     INFLUENCES. 

ONE  other  person  sometimes  visited  the  island,  who  had  a 
powerful  influence  over  these  children.  This  man  was  an  Indian 
missionary,  who,  following  the  path  of  Zinzendorf,  had  made  his 
home  in  the  wilderness,  about  the  time  that  Derwent  entered  the 
valley.  He  was  evidently  a  man  of  birth  and  education,  for  even 
the  wild  habits  of  the  woods  had  been  insufficient  to  disguise  the 


HOLY     INFLUENCES.  15 

natural  refinement  of  mind  and  manners  which  made  the  humi 
lity  of  his  character  so  touchingly  beautiful. 

This  man  came  often  to  the  island.  Sometimes  he  remained 
all  night  in  the  cabin.  Sometimes  he  lingered  days  with  the 
family,  teaching  the  little  girls  those  higher  branches  which  their 
father  could  not  control,  and  planting  a  thousand  holy  thoughts 
in  the  young  minds,  that  lifted  themselves  to  his  knowledge,  as 
the  flower  opens  its  cup.  for  the  night  dew. 

Serene  and  gentle  as  a  child,  he  possessed  that  pure  dignity 
which  gives  moral  force  to  manhood.  His  whole  being  was  so 
imbued  with  the  Saviour's  spirit,  that  his  very  presence  brought 
a  heavenly  influence  with  it — an  influence  which  Mary  Derwent 
felt  to  the  uttermost  depths  of  her  soul. 

He  was  not  a  sorrowful  man,  and  yet  you  saw  that  he  had 
been,  at  some  period  of  life,  a  sufferer,  and  that  the  shadows  of 
a  softened  grief  lay  upon  him  yet.  To  this  man  Mary  Derwent 
gave  out  her  entire  soul  as  naturally  as  perfume  exhales  from  a 
flower  when  the  sunshine  is  warm.  She  would  sit  on  his  lap  for 
hours  together,  looking  wistfully  into  his  deep  blue  eyes,  as  if 
she  were  studying  out  the  mysterious  memories  that  had  left 
them  so  sweetly  sad.  She  would  touch  the  long  silken  hair  that 
flowed  down  to  his  shoulders  with  shy  tenderness,  and  if  he 
smiled — a  rare  and  most  beautiful  thing  was  that  smile — the 
color  would  break  over  her  face,  her  eyes  would  grow  misty,  and 
she  would  gaze  upon  him  with  a  deep,  serious  earnestness,  as  if 
the  smile  troubled  her  more  than  his  usual  sad  serenity. 

Under  these  beautiful  and  almost  holy  influences,  the  children 
lived  in  their  island  home,  each  taking  from  the  elements  around 
her  such  nutriment  as  her  nature  craved,  till  Derwent,  who  had 
been  ill  since  their  first  remembrance,  sunk  slowly  to  his  deathbed. 

The  last  attack  came  suddenly,  while  the  missionary  was 
absent  among  the  Shawnees,  far  down  the  valley  ;  but  scarcely 
had  the  little  family  felt  the  need  of  his  presence,  when  he 
appeared  quietly  and  kindly,  as  our  Saviour  sometimes  stole 
upon  his  apostles  in  their  need.  All  one  night  he  remained  with 


16  MAKY     DERWENT. 

the  sick  man  ;  their  conversation  could  be  heard  in  broken  frag 
ments  in  the  next  room,  where  the  old  mother  sat  weeping  over 
her  grandchildren,  holding  Jane  fondly  in  her  lap,  while  Mary 
sat  upon  the  floor,  so  chilled  with  grief  that  she  did  not  feel  the 
tender  sorrow  lavished  upon  her  sister,  as  neglect  of  herself. 
Like  a  pure  white  lily  broken  at  the  stem,  she  sat  wistfully 
gazing  in  the  distance,  wondering  what  death  was,  vaguely  and 
in  dreamy  desolation.  They  were  called  at  last,  and  with  a 
dying  effort  Jane  was  drawn  to  her  father's  bed,  the  last  breath, 
the  last  blessing  fell  upon  her.  Mary  had  no  time  ;  the  father's 
life  was  exhausted  in  that  one  benediction. 

But  the  missionary  saw  how  terribly  she  was  chilled,  and  took 
her  in  his  arms — ah  !  so  tenderly — and  kissed  her  forehead. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  kissed  one  of  the  children 
since  their  remembrance,  and  now  the  kiss  was  for  her,  all  for 
her.  A  thrill  ran  through  her  from  heart  to  limb.  It  seemed 
as  if  her  father  had  come  back  in  that  caress,  and  had  thus  atoned 
for  the  lost  blessing. 

The  missionary  led  her  forth  into  the  open  air.  He  said  but 
little,  and  his  voice  fell  dreamily  on  the  senses  of  the  child  ; 
but  its  first  low  cadence  filled  her  soul  with  infinite  resignation. 
From  that  time  Mary  could  never  realize  that  her  father  had 
died  leaving  no  blessing  for  her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  missionary 
had  inhaled  the  life  from  his  departing  soul,  and  turned  it  all  to 
love.  The  child  recognized  a  double  presence  in  this  holy  man. 
Not  even  her  grandmother  was  permitted  to  kiss  the  forehead 
which  his  lips  had  touched.  Her  brow  became  sacred  from  that 
time,  and  she  would  shrink  back  with  a  cry  of  absolute  pain,  if 
any  one  attempted  to  disturb  the  kiss  which  was  to  her  in  the 
place  of  a  lost  blessing. 

All  these  things  made  a  strong  impression  on  the  child.  She 
never  thought  of  her  father  as  dead,  for  this  man  always  arose 
between  her  soul  and  the  thought,  like  the  angel  who  stood  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Saviour's  sepulchre,  denoting  his  absence  only 
by  a  flood  of  light. 


THE     CRUEL     ENLIGHTENMENT.  1 7 

Another  thing  tended  to  confirm  this  beautiful  impression. 
When  she  went  down  to  the  clump  of  mossy  old  cedars  under 
which  Derwent  was  buried,  she  frequently  found  the  missionary 
waiting,  as  if  he  had  known  of  her  coming  long  before  it  entered 
her  own  mind  ;  and  to  an  imaginative  child,  this  apparent  fore 
knowledge  of  her  wishes  formed  a  mysterious  and  sacred 
influence. 

The  missionary  had  many  duties  to  perform,  and  Ms  inter 
course  with  the  island  was  sometimes  interrupted  for  months  ; 
but  the  little  heart  that  clung  to  him  could  live  upon  a  remem 
brance  of  his  teachings,  even  when  his  presence  was  withheld. 
It  was  a  wonderful  influence,  that  which  his  strong,  pure  soul 
had  obtained  over  the  child.  "While  these  feelings  were  taking 
root  in  the  nature  of  one  sister,  the  other  was  working  out  her 
own  life,  and  the  grandmother  took  up  the  duties  imposed  by 
her  bereavement  with  great  resolution. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE      CRUEL     ENLIGHTENMENT. 

GRANDMOTHER  DERWENT  had  contrived  to  purchase  implements 
for  spinning  and  weaving  the  coarse  cloth,  which  constituted 
the  principal  clothing  of  the  settlers.  The  inhabitants  gave  her 
plenty  of  work,  and  produce  from  her  farm  supplied  her  house 
hold  with  grain  and  vegetables. 

Even  the  little  girls,  who  under  many  circumstances  would  have 
been  a  burden,  were  in  reality  an  assistance  to  her. 

Jane  was  a  bright  and  beautiful  child,  with  dark  silky  hair, 
pleasant  eyes,  and  lips  like  the  damp  petals  of  a  red  rose.  She 
was,  withal,  a  tidy,  active  little  maiden,  and,  as  Mrs.  Derwent  was 
wont  to  say,  "  saved  grandma  a  great  many  steps,"  by  running 

2 


18  MARY      DERWENT. 

to  the  spring  for  water,  winding  quills,  and  doing  what  Miss 
Sedgwick  calls  the  "  odds  and  ends  of  housework." 

Jane  led  a  pleasant  life  on  the  island.  She  was  a  frank,  mirth 
ful  creature,  and  it  suited  her  to  paddle  her  cauoe  on  the  bosom 
of  the  river,  or  even  to  urge  it  down  the  current,  when  "  grand 
ma  "  wanted  a  piece  of  cloth  carried  to  the  village,  or  was  anx 
ious  to  procure  from  thence  tea  and  other  little  delicacies  for  her 
household. 

When  Mrs.  Derwent's  quill-box  was  full,  and  "  the  work  all  done 
up,"  Jane  might  be  found  clambering  among  the  wild  rocks, 
which  frowned  along  the  eastern  shore,  looking  over  the  face  of 
some  bold  precipice  at  her  image  reflected  in  the  stream  below  ; 
or,  perchance,  perched  in  the  foliage  of  a  grape-vine,  with  her  rosy 
face  peering  out  from  the  leaves,  and  her  laugh  ringing  merrily 
from  cliff  to  cliff,  while  her  little  hands  showered  down  the  purple 
clusters  to  her  sister  below. 

Such  was  Jane  Derwent,  at  the  age  of  fourteen  ;  but  poor 
little  Mary  Derwent !  nature  grew  more  and  more  cruel  to  her. 
While  each  year  endowed  her  sister  with  new  beauty  and  un 
clouded  cheerfulness,  she,  poor  delicate  thing,  was  kept  instinct 
ively  from  the  notice  of  her  fellow-creatures.  The  inmates  of 
that  little  cabin  could  not  bear  that  strange  eyes  should  gaze  on 
her  deformity — for  it  was  this  deformity  which  had  ever  made 
the  child  an  object  of  such  tender  interest. 

From  her  infancy,  the  little  girl  had  presented  a  strange  mixture 
of  the  hideous  and  the  beautiful.  Her  oval  face  with  its  marvel 
lous  symmetry  of  features,  might  have  been  the  original  from 
which  Dubufe  drew  the  chaste  and  heavenly  features  of  Eve,  in 
his  picture  of  the  "  Temptation."  The  same  sweetness  and  pur 
ity  was  there,  but  the  expression  was  chastened  and  melancholy. 
Her  soft  blue  eyes  were  always  sad,  and  almost  always  moist  ; 
the  lashes  drooped  over  them,  with  an  expression  of  languid  mis 
ery.  A  smile  seldom  brightened  her  mouth — the  same  mournful 
expression  of  hopelessness  sat  forever  on  that  calm,  white  fore 
head  ;  the  faint  color  would  often  die  away  from  her  cheek,  but 


THE     CRUEL     ENLIGHTENMENT.  19 

it  seldom  deepened  there.  Her  tresses,  bright  as  sunbeams,  and 
silky  as  thistle-down,  seemed  too  free  and  golden  to  shadow  that 
joyless  face,  or  to  perform  their  office  of  concealment,  when  they 
fell  in  shining  radiance  over  the  unseemly  hump,  and  the  distorted 
limbs,  which  rendered  her  misshappen  person  piteous  to  look 
upon.  Nature,  as  if  to  inflict  the  greatest  injury  with  the  most 
cruel  consciousness  of  it,  had  imbued  her  spirit  with  that  subtle 
fire  men  call  genius,  and  which  often  exists  through  a  lifetime 
unwritten  and  unrecorded  save  in  keen  sensation  and  in  lu 
minous  flashes  of  thought  ;  but  this  unuttered  genius  mingles 
with  the  delicate  nature  of  woman,  like  the  holy  flame  which 
lighted  the  altars  of  the  ancients,  consuming  the  heart  it  preys 
upon,  with  a  rapidity  proportioned  to  its  brightness. 

It  is  almost  startling  to  learn  the  strength  of  feeling,  and  the 
hoard  of  bitter  thoughts,  which  are  sometimes  exposed  lurking 
in  the  bosom  of  a  child.  Mary  was  fifteen  before  any  person 
supposed  her  conscious  of  her  horrible  malformation,  or  was 
aware  of  the  deep  sensitiveness  of  her  nature.  The  event  which 
brought  both  to  life,  occurred  a  few  years  after  the  death  of 
her  father.  Both  the  children  had  been  sent  to  school,  and  her 
first  trial  came  on  the  clearing,  before  the  little  log  school-house 
of  the  village.  Mary  was  chosen  into  the  centre  of  the  merry 
ring,  by  Edward  Clark,  a  bright-eyed,  handsome  boy,  with 
manners  bold  and  frank  almost  to  carelessness. 

The  kind-hearted  boy  drew  her  gently  into  the  ring,  and 
joined  the  circle,  without  the  laugh  and  joyous  bound  which  usu 
ally  accompanied  his  movements.  There  was  an  instinctive  feel 
ing  of  delicacy  and  tenderness  towards  the  little  girl,  which  for 
bade  all  boisterous  merriment  when  she  was  by  his  side.  It  was 
her  turn  to  select  a  partner  ;  she  extended  her  hand  timidly  to 
wards  a  boy  somewhat  old*er  than  herself — the  son  of  a  rich 
landholder  in  the  valley  ;  but  young  Wintermoot  drew  back  with 
an  insulting  laugh,  and  refused  to  stand  up  with  the  hunchback. 

Instantly  the  ring  was  broken  up.  Edward  Clark  leaped  for 
ward,  and  with  a  blow,  rendered  powerful  by  honest  indignation, 


20  MABY      DEB  WENT. 

smote  the  insulter  to  the  ground.  For  one  moment  Mary  looked 
around  bewildered,  as  if  she  did  not  comprehend  the  nature  of 
the  taunt  ;  then  the  blood  rushed  up  to  her  face,  her  soft  blue 
eyes  blazed  with  a  sudden  flash  of  fire,  the  little  hand  was 
clenched,  and  her  distorted  form  dilated  with  passion.  Instant 
ly  the  blood  flowed  back  upon  her  heart,  her  white  lips  closed 
over  her  clenched  teeth,  and  she  fell  forward  with  her  face  upon 
the  ground,  as  one  stricken  by  unseen  lightning. 

The  group  gathered  around  her,  awe-smitten  and  afraid.  They 
could  not  comprehend  this  fearful  burst  of  passion  in  a  creature 
habitually  so  gentle  and  sweet-tempered.  It  seemed  as  if  the  in 
solent  boy  had  crushed  her  to  death  with  a  sneer. 

Her  brave  defender  knelt  and  raised  her  head  to  his  bosom, 
tears  of  generous  indignation  still  lingered  on  his  burning  cheek, 
and  his  form  shook  with  scarcely  abated  excitement.  Unmindful 
of  the  threats  and  hostile  gestures  of  his  antagonist,  he  fanned 
the  pale  face,  which  lay  so  like  marble  upon  his  bosom,  rubbed 
the  cold  hands,  and  exerted  all  his  little  skill  to  re-animate  her. 
Jane  stood  by,  wringing  her  hands  and  moaning  like  a  demented 
thing  ;  poor  child,  she  was  ignorant  of  the  strength  of  human 
passions,  and  thought  that  nothing  but  death  could  take  a  form 
so  appalling. 

At  length  Mary  Derwent  arose  with  the  calmness  of  a  hushed 
storm  upon  her  face,  and  turning  to  her  inevitable  solitude, 
walked  silently  away. 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  look  of  anguish  with 
which  she  left  her  companions,  taking,  as  it  were,  a  silent  and 
eternal  farewell  of  all  the  joys  that  belong  to  childhood.  The 
coarse  taunt  of  the  boy  had  been  a  cruel  revelation,  tearing  away 
all  the  tender  shields  and  loving  delusions  with  which  home-af 
fection  had  so  long  sheltered  her.  She  did  know  what  meaning 
lay  in  the  word  hunchback,  but  felt,  with  a  sting  of  unutterable 
shame,  that  it  was  applied  to  her  because  she  was  unlike  other 
girls.  That  she  must  never  be  loved  as  they  were — never  hope 
to  be  one  of  them  again. 


THE     HEMLOCK      HOLLOW.  21 

The  school-children  looked  on  this  intense  passion  with  silent 
awe.  Even  Jane  dared  not  utter  the  sympathy  that  filled  her 
eyes  with  tears,  or  follow  after  her  sister. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE     HEMLOCK     HOLLOW. 

So  with  terror  and  shame  at  the  cruel  discovery  at  her  heart, 
Mary  went  away.  The  blood  throbbed  in  her  temples,  and 
rushed  hotly  through  all  her  veins.  An  acute  sense  of  wrong 
seized  upon  her,  and  thirsting  to  be  alone,  she  fled  to  the  woods 
like  a  hunted  animal,  recoiling  alike  from  her  playfellows  and 
her  home. 

Through  the  thick  undergrowth,  and  over  wild  rocks,  the  poor 
creature  tore  her  way,  struggling  and  panting  amid  the  thorny 
brushwood,  as  if  life  and  death  depended  upon  her  progress. 

There  was  but  one  human  being  whom  she  could  have  met 
without  a  cry  of  pain,  and  him  she  sought  blindly,  but  with  that 
inscrutable  instinct  which  leads  the  thirsty  deer  to  a  spring  in  the 
mountains. 

Over  many  a  rough  mile  the  poor  child  urged  her  way,  till 
she  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  shallow  ravine,  through  which  a 
mountain  brook  rushed  with  mellow  gurgles  and  bright,  musical 
leaps.  A  line  of  mossy  green  marked  its  course  to  the  river, 
forming  pleasant  little  pools,  and  breaking  into  miniature  rapids 
all  the  way.  Tall  hemlocks,  pines,  and  chestnuts,  gave  an 
atmosphere  of  greenish  gold  to  the  hollow,  while  dogwood  and 
wild  honeysuckles  shed  the  glory  of  their  blossoms  and  the  gloom 
of  their  leaves  over  the  brook. 

Beds  of  rich  forest  moss,  tipped  with  adder's-tongue,  blood- 
root,  and  fern-leaves,  covered  the  descending  slopes,  and  just 


22  MAKYDEKWENT. 

beneath  her  a  huge  flat  rock,  tufted  with  grass  and  carpeted 
with  moss,  choked  up  the  bed  of  the  stream. 

The  poor  weary  girl  looked  down  into  the  hollow  with  a  wist 
ful  gaze.  Her  limbs  were  heavy — her  cheeks  pale  as  marble. 
She  longed  to  creep  away  into  some  lonesome  spot  and  rest. 
This  was  the  place  ;  nothing  but  the  mellow  laughter  of  the 
brook  to  disturb  her — not  even  a  bird  to  wonder  at  her  pre 
sence. 

Impelled,  perhaps,  by  the  fatigue,  which  had  left  her  so  pallid, 
or,  it  may  be,  guided  by  that  God  who  watches  more  helpless 
things  than  she  was,  with  divine  guidance,  she  stole  down  into 
the  depths  of  the  ravine,  and  there,  desolate  and  heart-broken, 
sat  down  upon  the  rock  which  had  grown  mossy  in  the  bed  of 
the  trout-stream. 

Nothing  but  solitude — nothing  but  the  waters  to  trouble  her 
with  their  murmur  !  She  looked  keenly  around,  fearing  that 
some  forest  animal  might  be  eyeing  her,  for  a  sense  of  her  de 
formity  was  now  fastened  keenly  upon  every  thought.  At  each 
sound  she  started.  A  sudden  rush  of  wind  through  the  branches 
sent  a  glow  of  terror  to  her  eyes.  She  shuddered  at  the  sight  of 
anything  alive — anything  ever  so  small  that  could  reproach  her 
deformity  with  its  curious  eyes. 

A  striped  squirrel  ran  along  the  boughs  of  a  chestnut  tree 
overhead,  and  peered  down  upon  her  from  among  the  long  green 
leaves  and  tassel-like  blossoms.  She  started  up.  A  flush  came 
to  her  beautiful  forehead,  and  with  a  cry  that  seemed  in  itself  a 
pang,  she  tore  up  a  stone  to  fling  at  it.  The  squirrel  started 
away,  uttering  a  broken  noise,  that  fell  upon  her  sore  heart  like 
a  taunt.  Why  did  the  little  creature  follow  her  ?  Why  did  it 
bend  those  sharp,  black  eyes  upon  her,  with  its  head  turned  so 
mockingly  upon  one  side  ?  Was  she  never  to  be  alone  ?  Was 
the  cruel  animal  still  gibing  at  her  through  the  chestnut  leaves  ? 
Where  could  she  go  ?  Where  was  the  spot  of  earth  which  would 
hold  no  living  thing  but  herself  ? 

She  stood  up  and  peered  into  the  chestnut  branches,  with  an- 


THE     HEMLOCK     HOLLOW.  23 

other  stone  in  her  hand,  determined  to  kill  the  squirrel,  or  any 
living  creature  that  dared  to  look  upon  her.  Poor  child  !  It 
was  the  first  time  a  cruel  thought  ever  entered  her  mind  ;  but 
her  delicate  organization  was  all  unstrung.  She  felt  like  a  leper 
driven  into  the  wilderness.  Her  soul  was  at  enmity  with  every 
thing  that  broke  upon  her  solitude.  Loneliness  she  felt  to  be 
her  right — the  only  one  left  to  her  forever. 

The  squirrel  darted  from  bough  to  bough,  and  at  last  ran 
down  the  trunk  of  the  chestnut.  Mary  followed  it  with  eager 
glances,  till  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  root  of  the  tree.  The  stone 
dropped  from  her  hand,  the  angry  color  fled  from  her  face, 
and  stretching  out  her  arms  with  a  cry  that  perished  on  her  lips, 
she  waited  for  the  missionary  to  descend. 

He  came  rather  quickly,  and  the  gentle  serenity  of  his  coun 
tenance  was  disturbed,  but  still  a  look  of  unutterable  goodness 
rested  upon  it.  When  he  reached  Mary  her  eyes  were  flooded 
with  tears,  and  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  His  sympathy 
she  could  endure.  His  very  look  had  opened  the  purest  foun 
tains  of  her  heart  again.  She  was  not  altogether  alone. 

"  Crying,  Mary,  crying  ?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  inquiry,  rather 
than  of  reproach.  "  Who  has  taught  you  to  weep  ?" 

"  Oh  I  father,  father,  what  can  I  do  ?  Where  can  I  hide 
myself  ?"  cried  the  poor  girl,  lifting  her  clasped  hands  piteously 
upward. 

The  missionary  saw  it  all.  For  a  moment  the  color  left  his 
lips,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  trouble  to  their  azure  depths.  He 
sat  down  by  her  side,  and  drew  her  gently  towards  him,  like 
the  father  she  had  learned  to  call  him. 

"  And  this  has  driven  you  so  far  from  home  !"  he  said,  smooth 
ing  her  hair  with  one  hand,  which  trembled  among  the  golden 
tresses,  for  never  had  his  sympathies  been  drawn  more  power 
fully  forth.  "  Who  has  done  this  cruel  thing,  Mary  ?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  he  felt  a  shudder  pass  over  her  frame, 
as  she  made  a  vain  effort  to  speak. 

"  Was  it  your  playfellows  at  school  ?" 


24:  MAKTDEKWENT. 

"  I  shall  never  have  playfellows  again,"  broke  from  the 
trembling  lips  which  seemed  torn  apart  by  the  desolating  words  ; 
"  never  again,  for  where  does  another  girl  like  me  live  in  the 
world  ?  God  has  made  no  playfellow  for  me  !" 

The  missionary  allowed  her  to  weep.  He  knew  that  a  world 
of  bitterness  would  be  carried  from  her  bosom  with  those  tears. 

"  But  God  has  made  us  for  something  better  than  playfellows 
to  each  other,"  he  said  at  last,  taking  her  little  hand  in  his. 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully,  and  answered  with  unutterable 
sadness,  "  But  I  cannot  be  even  that,  I  am  alone  1" 

"  No,"  answered  the  missionary,  "  not  alone — not  alone, 
though  you  never  heard  another  human  voice — even  here  in  the 
deep  woods  you  would  find  something  to  love  and  help  too — 
never  think  yourself  alone,  Mary,  while  any  creature  that  God 
has  made  is  near." 

"But  who  will  love  me?  Who  will  help  me?"  cried  the  girl 
with  a  burst  of  anguish. 

"  Who  will  love  you,  Mary  !  Do  not  I  love  you  ?  Does 
not  your  grandmother  and  sister  love  you  ?" 

"  But  now — now  that  they  know  about  this — that  I  am  a 
hunchback,  it  will  be  all  over." 

Poor  girl  1  she  had  not  reflected  that  the  revelation  which  fell 
with  the  suddenness  of  an  earthquake  on  her  own  heart,  had 
always  been  a  fact  with  those  who  loved  her. 

The  missionary  smiled  pityingly  at  this  delusion,  so  natural 
and  so  touching. 

"  But  they  have  known  it,  Mary,  ever  since  you  were  a  little 
child.  Well,  well,  we  must  not  talk  about  it,  but  think  how 
much  every  one  at  home  has  loved  you." 

"  And  they  knew  it  all — they  saw  it  while  I  was  blind,  and 
loved  me  still,"  murmured  the  girl,  while  great  tears  of  gratitude 
rolled  down  her  cheeks,  "  and  they  will  love  me  always  just  the 
game — you  promise  me  this  ?" 

"  Always  the  same,  Mary  I" 

"Yes,  yes— I  see  they  have  loved  me  always,  more  than  if  I 


THE     HEMLOCK      HOLLOW.  25 

were  ever  so  beautiful — they  were  sorry  for  me,  I  understand  I" 
There  was  a  sting  of  bitterness  in  her  voice.  The  love  which 
came  from  compassion,  wounded  her. 

"  But  our  Saviour  loves  his  creatures  most  for  this  very  reason. 
Their  imperfections  and  feebleness  appeal  like  an  unuttered 
prayer  to  him.  It  is  a  beautiful  love,  Mary,  that  which  strength 
gives  to  dependence,  for  it  approaches  nearest  to  that  heavenly 
benevolence  which  the  true  soul  always  thirsts  for." 

Mary  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  as  he  spoke.  The  unshed 
tears  trembled  like  diamonds  within  them.  She  became  very 
thoughtful,  and  drooped  slowly  downward,  coloring  faintly  be 
neath  his  eyes,  as  maidens  sometimes  blush  at  their  own  inno 
cent  thoughts,  when  nothing  but  the  eye  of  God  is  upon  them. 

44  But  there  is  another  love,  my  father  ;  I  have  seen  it  at  the 
school  and  in  the  cabins,  I  have  watched  it  as  I  have  the  moun 
tain  flowers,  and  thought  that  God  meant  this  love  for  me,  like 
the  rest  ;  but  when  I  go  among  other  girls,  no  one  will  ever 
think  that  I  am  one  of  them — no  one  but  Edward  Clark,  and  he 
only  feels  pity — love  for  me  ;  to  all  the  rest  I  am  a  hunchback." 

A  look  of  great  trouble  came  upon  the  face  of  the  missionary. 
For  some  moments  he  did  not  answer,  and  the  poor  girl  drooped 
by  his  side.  The  blush  faded  from  the  snow  of  her  forehead, 
and  she  trembled  all  over  with  vague  shame  of  the  words  she 
had  spoken.  His  silence  seemed  like  a  reproach  to  her. 

"  My  child  !" — oh,  with  what  holy  sweetness  the  words  fell 
from  his  lips — •"  my  child,  it  is  true,  this  love  must  never  be 
yours." 

"  Never  1"  echoed  the  pale  lips  of  the  child,  "  never  !" 

"  But  in  this,  oh,  believe  it,  Mary  !  you  but  share  the  fate  of 
tuoufe_uids  beautiful  as  your  sister — good  as  yourself.  This  love 
is  a  lost  angel,  who  wandered  forth  with  our  first  parents  from 
paradise,  whom  a  few  entertain  unawares,  and  more  never 
find." 

"  But  those  who  find  him  must  be  so  happy  I"  cried  the  girl 
with  another  flush  of  the  whole  face. 


26  M  A  It  Y      D  E  li  W  E  N  T  . 

"I  do  not  know,"  answered  the  missionary  in  a  sad  voice,  "  I 
do  not  know." 

"  And  I  never  can  know,"  answered  the  deformed. 

"  Do  not  believe  that  God  has  stricken  you  alone,  or  without 
purpose,  my  child.  If  he  has  closed  one  blessing  to  you  which 
seems  open  for  all,  others  are  given  which  your  school-fellows, 
who  seem  so  much  more  fortunate,  can  never  hope  for.  Look 
around  you,  and  even  here  in  the  woods,  how  many  sources  of 
happiness  are  in  sight,  which  would  be  nothing  to  them.  From 
the  tiny  creeper  at  your  feet,  to  the  flashes  of  sunshine  that 
shoot  through  the  green  of  the  hemlocks  yonder,  everything  is 
clothed  in  beauty  for  you.  If  you  have  a  joy,  God  has  given  it 
a  more  exquisite  keenness,  and  your  suffering,  Mary,  sharp 
though  it  must  be,  leads  to  a  deeper  sympathy  and  broader 
benevolence  for  those  who  suffer  also." 

Mary  listened  and  a  smile  parted  her  lips. 

"  You  smile,  Mary,  because  your  heart  tells  you  that  all  this 
is  real.  Do  not  mourn,  then,  over  that  which  God  has  permitted 
in  your  person,  but  receive  the  blessings  that  have  taken  the 
place  of  symmetry,  and  ask  only  for  a  deeper  gift  of  heavenly 
love,  in  place  of  that  forbidden  to  you  on  earth." 

The  smile  grew  luminous  all  over  that  lovely  face,  and  Mary 
drew  closer  to  her  friend. 

"  This  dream  of  love,  give  it  up,  Mary,  while  it  is  but  a 
dream,"  added  the  missionary  in  a  raised  and  firmer  voice.  "  To 
many  more  than  yourself  it  is  a  hope  never,  never  realized.  Do 
not  struggle  for  it — do  not  pine  for  it — God  help  you,  child — 
God  help  us  all  1" 

The  anguish  in  his  voice  thrilled  her  to  the  soul.  She  bent 
her  forehead  meekly  to  his  knee,  murmuring — 

"  I  will  try  to  be  patient — but  oh,  do  not  look  at  me  so 
mournfully." 

He  laid  his  hands  softly  under  her  forehead,  and,  lifting  her 
face  to  his,  gazed  mournfully  upon  it,  as  if  his  soul  were  looking 
far  away  through  her  eyes  into  the  dim  past. 


THE     FOREST      WALK.  27 

"  Father,  believe  me,  I  will  try." 

His  hands  dropped  downwards  at  the  sound  6f  her  voice,  and 
his  lips  began  to  move,  as  if  unuttered  words  were  passing  through 
them.  Mary  knew  that  he  was  praying,  and  her  face  drooped 
reverently  downward.  When,  or  how  this  silence  broke  into 
words  she  never  knew,  but  over  her  soul  went  the  burning  elo 
quence  of  his  voice  carried  heavenward  by  prayer — by  the  wind, 
and  the  rush  of  the  mountain  stream.  The  very  breath  lay  still 
upon  her  lips,  as  she  listened,  and  she  felt  more  like  a  winged 
angel  close  to  the  gate  of  heaven,  than  the  poor  deformed  girl, 
whose  soul  had,  a  few  hours  before,  been  so  full  of  bitterness. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE      FOREST     WALK. 

WHEN  the  missionary  arose  from  his  knees — for  to  that  posi 
tion  he  had  unconsciously  fallen — Mary  stood  beside  him  quiet 
and  smiling.  The  hemlocks  overhead  were  bathed  in  a  glow  of 
crimson,  and  kindled  at  the  top  with  flashes  of  dying  gold. 
The  waters  were  all  in  shadow,  but  through  an  opening  between 
the  hemlocks  and  the  chestnut  trees,  a  stream  of  light  came 
over  them  and  the  rock  upon  which  they  stood.  His  eyes  were 
bent  on  the  gentle  girl,  his  brow  was  covered  with  moisture,  a 
heavenly  glow  shone  on  his  face,  and  the  last  sunshine  which  fell 
aslant  his  hair,  crowned  him  as  with  a  glory. 

"  Come,  my  child,"  he  said,  taking  Mary  by  the  hand,  and 
loading  her  up  from  the, ravine.  "  It  is  almost  night,  and  you 
have  wandered  far  from  the  island  ;  see,  the  woods  are  already 
dusky.  The  birds  and  squirrels  are  settling  down  in  the  leaves; 
you  would  have  been  afraid  to  go  home  in  the  dark." 


28  MAKYDEKWENT. 

"  I  might  have  been  lost,  but  not  afraid,"  answered  Mary,  in 
a  sad  voice  ;  "  after  this,  darkness  will  be  my  best  friend." 

"  But  the  forest  is  full  of  Indians,  Mary,  and  now,  since  the 
English  have  excited  them  against  us,  no  white  person  is  safe 
after  dark  ;  I  will  go  home  with  you,  but  after  this,  promise  me 
never  to  come  alone  to  the  woods  again." 

"  The  Indians  will  not  harm  me,"  answered  Mary,  with  a 
mournful  smile  ;  "  they  pity  me,  I  think,  and  love  me  a  little 
too.  I  am  not  afraid  of  them  ;  their  tomahawks  are  not  so 
sharp  as  Jason  Wintermoot's  words  were  this  morning." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  a  rustling  among  the  bushes  at  their 
right,  and  through  the  purple  gloom  of  the  woods  they  saw  a 
group  of  Indians  crouching  behind  a  rock,  and  glaring  at  them 
through  the  undergrowth.  One  had  his  rifle  lifted  with  a  dusky 
hand,  creeping  towards  the  rock  ;  the  others  were  poised  for  a 
spring.  Mary  saw  them,  and  leaped  upon  a  rock  close  by,  pro 
tecting  the  missionary  from  the  aim  taken  at  his  life. 

"  Not  him — not  him,"  she  cried,  flinging  up  both  arms  in  wild 
appeal ;  "  shoot  me,  you  don't  know  how  I  long  to  die." 

As  she  uttered  this  pathetic  shout,  her  hair,  so  delicately 
golden,  floated  back  upon  the  wind;  only  her  beautiful — beauti 
ful  face  was  seen  through  the  dusk,  and  that  was  like  a  troubled 
cherub  lighted  up  with  tenderness  and  faith. 

The  Indians  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  The  threatening 
rifle  fell  with  a  clang  upon  the  rock,  and  instead  of  an  assault, 
the  savages  crept  out  from  their  ambush,  lighting  up  the  dusky 
ravine  with  their  gorgeous  war-dresses,  and  gathered  around  the 
young  girl,  like  a  flock  of  tropical  birds  surrendering  themselves 
to  the  charms  of  a  serpent. 

Mary  met  them  fearlessly  ;  a  wild,  spiritual  beauty  lighted  up 
her  face.  The  Indians  lost  their  ferocity,  and  looked  on  her 
with  grave  tenderness  ;  one  of  them  reached  forth  his  hand,  she 
laid  hers  in  the  swarthy  palm,  where  it  rested  like  a  snow-drop 
on  the  brown  earth  ;  he  looked  down  upon  it,  and  smiled  ;  her 
courage  charmed  him. 


THE     FOREST     WALK.  29 

"  The  white  bird  is  brave,  the  Great  Spirit  folds  his  wing  over 
her  which  is  pure  like  the  snow,"  he  said,  addressing  his  com 
panions  in  their  own  language. 

Mary  knew  a  little  of  the  Shawnee  tongue,  and  looking  up  at 
the  savage,  said  very  gently — 

"  Why  harm  my  father  ?  the  Great  Spirit  covers  him,  also, 
with  a  wing  which  is  broad  and  white  like  the  clouds.  Look  in 
his  face,  is  he  afraid  ?" 

The  Indians  drew  back,  and  looked  fiercely  at  the  missionary, 
gathering  up  their  rifles  with  menacing  gestures. 

He  understood  their  language  well,  and  spoke  to  them  with 
that  calm  self-possession  which  gives  dignity  to  courage. 

"  My  children,"  he  said,  "  what  wrong  have  I  done  that  you 
should  wish  to  kill  me  ?" 

The  leading  savage  set  down  his  gun  with  a  clang  upon  the 
rock. 

"You  have  sat  by  the  white  man's  council-fire  down  yonder. 
The  Great  Father  over  the  big  water  is  our  friend,  but  you  hate 
the  Indian,  and  will  help  them  drive  us  through  the  wind-gap 
into  strange  hunting  grounds." 

"I  am  not  your  enemy.  See,  I  carry  no  tomahawk  or  musket ; 
my  bosom  is  open  to  your  knives.  The  Great  Spirit  has  sent 
me  here,  and  He  will  keep  me  free  from  harm." 

Unconsciously  the  missionary  looked  at  the  deformed  girl  as 
he  spoke.  The  Indians  followed  his  glance,  and  changed  their 
defiant  gestures. 

"He  speaks  well.  Mineto  has  sent  his  beautiful  medicine 
spirit  to  guard  him  from  our  rifles.  The  medicine  father  of  the 
Shawnees  is  dead,  his  lodge  is  empty.  The  white  bird  shall  be 
our  prophet.  You  shall  be  her  brother,  live  in  the  great  Medi 
cine  Lodge,  and  dream  our  dreams  for  us  when  we  take  the 
war-path.  Do  we  speak  well  ?" 

The  missionary  pondered  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  He  read 
more  in  these  words  than  one  not  acquainted  with  Indian  cus 
toms  might  have  understood. 


30  M  A  R  Y      D  E  E  W  E  N  T  . 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  will  come  to  your  Medicine  Lodge, 
and  tell  you  all  the  dreams  which  the  Great  Spirit  sends  to  me. 
She,  too,  will  love  the  Indians,  and  dream  holy  dreams  for  them, 
but  not  here,  not  in  the  Medicine  Lodge.  She  must  stay  in 
Monokonok  among  the  broken  waters.  The  Great  Spirit  has 
built  her  lodge  there  under  the  tall  trees,  where  the  Indians  can 
seek  her  in  their  canoes.  Go  back  to  your  council-fire,  my  chil 
dren,  before  its  smoke  goes  out.  I  will  light  the  calumet,  and 
smoke  with  you.  Now  the  Great  Spirit  tells  me  to  go  with  this 
child  back  to  Monokonok.  Farewell." 

He  took  Mary  Derwent  by  the  hand,  turned  his  back  on  the 
menacing  rifles  without  fear,  and  walked  away  unmolested. 

Mary  had  wandered  miles  away  from  home  ;  nothing  but  the 
superior  knowledge  of  her  guardian  could  have  found  her  way 
back  through  all  that  dense  aud  unequal  forest.  It  was  now  al 
most  nightfall  ;  but  a  full  moon  had  risen,  and  by  its  light,  this 
man,  accustomed  to  the  woods,  guided  their  way  back  towards  the 
river.  But  after  the  wildest  of  her  excitement  had  worn  away, 
Mary  began  to  feel  the  toil  of  her  long  walk.  She  did  not  com 
plain,  however,  and  the  missionary  was  unconscious  of  this  over 
tax  of  strength,  till  she  sunk  down  on  a  broken  fragment  of  rock, 
utterly  exhausted.  He  stopped  in  great  distress,  and  bent  over 
her.  She  smiled,  and  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  pale  lids 
drooped  over  her  eyes,  and  the  strength  ebbing  completely  from 
her  limbs,  left  them  pale  and  limp.  She  lay  before  him  entirely 
senseless,  with  the  moonbeams  falling  over  her  like  a  winding- 
sheet. 

Nothing  but  the  angels  of  heaven  could  see  or  understand  the 
look  of  unutterable  thankfulness  which  came  to  his  noble  features 
as  the  missionary  stooped  and  took  the  young  girl  in  his  arms.  A 
smile  luminous  as  the  moonlight  that  played  upon  it,  stole  over 
his  whole  face,  and  the  words  that  broke  from  his  lips  were 
sweet  and  tender,  such  as  the  Madonna  might  have  whispered  to 
her  holy  child. 

He  took  no  pains  to  bring  her  back  to  life,  but  when  she  did 


THE      FOREST     WALK.  31 

come  to,  soothed  her  with  hushes,  and  laid  her  head  tenderly 
upon  his  shoulder  till  she  fell  asleep,  smiling  like  himself.  In 
deed,  as  the  moonbeams  fell  on  those  two  faces,  they  were 
strangely  alike,  not  in  form  or  feature,  but  the  glow  of  one  beau 
tiful  soul  seemed  to  spread  over  both. 

Mary  Derwent  was  a  slight  little  creature  ;  still  a  journey  over 
that  rough  forest  ground  was  exhausting  to  any  man  even  with 
out  encumbrance.  He  did  not  feel  the  weight,  but  folded  her 
closer  and  closer  to  his  heart,  till  it  seemed  ready  to  break. 

As  he  came  in  sight  of  Monokonok,  a  swell  of  regretful  tender 
ness  swept  all  his  strength  away  more  surely  than  fatigue  could 
have  done.  He  sat  down  upon  a  fallen  tree  on  the  bank  just 
opposite  the  island,  and  looked  down  into  that  sweet  face  with  a 
gaze  of  heavenly  affection.  His  head  drooped  slowly  down,  he 
folded  her  closer,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  the  closed  eyes,  the 
forehead,  the  lips,  and  cheeks  of  the  sleeping  child  with  a  passion 
of  tenderness  that  shook  his  whole  frame. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  my  God  !  forgive  me  if  this  is  sinful  !  my  soul 
aches  under  this  excess  of  love  ;  the  very  fountains  of  my  life  are 
breaking  up  !  Father  of  heaven,  I  am  thine,  all  thine,  but  she 
is  here  on  my  breast,  and  I  am  but  human." 

Deep  sobs  broke  away  from  his  heart,  almost  lifting  her  from  his 
bosom  ;  tears  rained  down  his  face;  and  dropped  thick  and  fast 
amid  the  waves  of  her  hair.  He  was  like  a  child — that  calm- 
hearted  man  of  God,  like  a  little  child. 

His  sobs  aroused  Mary  from  her  slumber.  She  was  not  quite 
awake,  but  stirred  softly,  and  folded  her  arms  about  his  neck. 
How  the  strong  man  trembled  under  the  clasp  of  those  arms  ! 
how  he  struggled  and  wrestled  against  the  weakness  that  had 
almost  overpowered  him,  and  not  in  vain  1  A  canoe  was  moored 
under  a  clump  of  alders,  just  below  him.  It  belonged  to  the  is 
land,  and  in  that  Mary  must  be  borne  to  her  home.  He  was 
obliged  to  row  the  canoe,  and  of  course  must  awake  her.  Once 
more  he  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  face,  once  more  he  strained  her 
to  his  heart,  and  then  with  loving  violence  aroused  her. 


03  M  ART      DER  WENT. 

"  Mary — come,  little  one,  wake  up,  wake  up  !  see  how  late  it 
is  !  Grandmother  will  be  frightened." 

"  Let  me  alone — oh  please,  let  me  alone  !"  murmured  the 
weary  child. 

"  No,  Mary,  arouse  yourself ;  you  and  I  have  slept  and 
dreamed  too  long.  There,  there  !  look  around.  See  how  the  moon 
light  ripples  upon  the  river  !  Look  at  the  island  ;  there  is  a  light 
burning  in  the  cabin.  They  are  anxious  no  doubt  at  your  long 
stay.  Come,  child,  let  us  be  strong  :  surely  you  can  walk  to 
the  river's  brink." 

Yes,  Mary  could  walk  again  ;  that  sweet  sleep  had  given  back 
her  strength.  She  sat  down  in  the  canoe,  tranquilized  and  hap 
pier  than  she  had  ever  hoped  to  be  again.  The  bitterness  of  the 
morning  had  entirely  passed  away.  They  floated  on  down  the 
river  a  few  minutes.  Then  the  missionary  bent  to  his  oars,  and 
the  canoe  shot  across  the  silvery  rapids,  and  drew  up  in  a  little 
cove  below  the  house. 

The  missionary  stepped  on  shore.     Mary  followed  him. 

"  Are  you  happier  now  ?  are  you  content  to  live  as  God 
wills  it  1"  he  said,  extending  his  hand,  while  his  eyes  beamed 
upon  her. 

"  Yes,  father,  I  am  content." 

"  To  live  even  without  earthly  love  ?" 

Mary  shrunk  within  herself — it  takes  more  than  a  few  words, 
a  struggle,  or  a  single  prayer,  to  uproot  a  desire  for  human  love 
from  a  woman's  heart. 

He  did  not  reason  with  her,  or  upbraid  her  then,  but  only  said, 
"  God  will  find  a  way — have  no  fear,  all  human  beings  have 
some  road  to  happiness  if  they  will  but  let  the  Heavenly  Father 
point  it  out.  Good  night,  Mary." 

"  Good  night,"  responded  the  young  girl,  while  her  eyes  filled 
with  grateful  tears,  "  good  night,  my  father  I" 

He  turned  around,  laid  his  hands  on  her  head,  and  blessed 
her,  then  stepped  into  the  canoe,  and  disappeared  along  the 
path  of  silver  cast  downward  by  the  moon.  The  young  girl 


THE     FOREST     WALK.  38 

smiled  amid  her  tears.  How  dark  it  was  when  he  found  her  at 
noontide,  how  bright  when  he  went  away  ! 

Mary  Derwent  entered  that  log  cabin  a  changed  being.  She 
scarcely  understood  herself,  or  anything  that  had  filled  her  life 
up  to  that  day.  Her  own  nature  was  inexplicable.  One  great 
shock  had  thrust  her  forward,  as  it  were,  to  a  maturity  of  suffer 
ing  ;  her  smile  became  mournful  and  sad  in  its  expression,  as  if 
the  poor  creature  had  become  weary  of  life  and  of  all  living 
things.  She  never  again  joined  in  the  childish  sports  of  her 
companions. 

When  shouts  of  merriment  rang  loudest  on  the  green,  Mary 
was  alone  among  the  wild,  high  rocks,  or  away  by  the  river's 
brink,  gazing  upon  the  perpetual  flow  of  its  waters,  and  musing, 
hour  after  hour,  upon  the  beautiful  fancies  which  at  that  period 
dawned  upon  her  intellect,  as  if  to  compensate  for  the  evils  that 
had  been  heaped  upon  her  person.  In  the  solitude  of  nature, 
alone,  could  she  escape  the  terrible  consciousness  of  her  deform 
ity,  a  consciousness  so  suddenly  and  cruelly  brought  home  to 
her  delicate  spirit.  But  the  new  happiness  that  dawned  upon 
her  was  an  exquisite  blessing  ;  looking  up  to  the  Most  High  so 
directly  through  His  works,  she  was  sometimes  almost  in  com 
munion  with  the  angels.  When  alone,  she  had  no  enemies  in 
the  earth  or  in  the  sky.  The  flowers  had  no  eyes  to  mock  at 
her  unshapely  form,  as  it  bent  over  them  ;  the  moss  received  her 
weary  frame  as  lovingly  as  if  limbs  of  the  most  perfect  mould 
pressed  its  green  bosom.  There  was  no  hollow  mockery  in  the 
gurgle  of  the  rivulet,  as  it  leaped,  like  a  shower  of  liquid  light, 
from  its  basin  in  the  wild  rocks — no  disgust  in  the  heavy  green 
ness  of  the  trees,  or  the  fluttering  birds  that  congregated,  with 
their  bright  plumage  and  sweet  voices,  among  the  leaves.  The 
young  girl  lived  alone  with  nature  till  her  spirit  became  imbued 
with  its  poetry,  as  the  spring  grass  receives  color  from  the  light 
in  which  it  exists.  Her  heart  became  delicate  as  a  flower,  yet 
in  the  unfathomed  depths  thereof  lay  strength  and  passion,  and 

3 


34:  MARYDEKWENT. 

fervency  of  feeling,  with  that  vivid  imagination  which  lavishes  a 
portion  of  its  own  brightness  on  all  earthly  things. 

To  the  few  beings  who  had  been  the  cherishers  of  Mary's 
helpless  state,  her  heart  twined  with  a  double  intensity,  from  the 
repulse  she  had  met  with  elsewhere.  She  clung  to  the  love  of 
her  grandmother  with  the  fondness  of  a  sickly  infant.  To  her 
sister,  Jane,  she  was  at  once  a  dependent,  from  physical  weak 
ness,  and  a  monitress  in  intellect.  Though  exceedingly  sweet  and 
affectionate  in  her  nature,  she  retained  an  influence  over  the  head 
strong  will  and  more  common-place  propensities  of  her  beautiful 
and  healthy  sister,  which  the  lofty  and  strong  mind  always  pos 
sesses  over  those  of  a  more  earthly  mould.  Her  spirit  mingled 
with  the  coarser  and  more  buoyant  mind  of  her  sister,  as  the 
sweet  song  which  rises  and  swells  from  the  heart  of  a  nightin 
gale,  while  she  sits  panting  with  the  love  of  her  own  music  among 
the  branches,  may  charm  the  notes  of  a  louder  and  stronger 
bird,  hushing  him  to  silence  by  the  sweetness  of  a  richer  and 
more  thrilling  melody. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE     ISLAND     COVE. 

THE  two  sisters  stood  together  under  the  willow  trees  that 
overhung  the  little  cove  from  which  Mary  had  landed  with  the 
missionary  three  years  before.  Both  had  grown  into  girlhood 
since  then,  and  both  had  improved  in  loveliness  ;  Jane  in  the 
bloom  and  symmetry  of  her  person — Mary  in  that  exquisite  love 
liness  of  countenance  which  touches  the  soul-like  music  in  a 
sound,  or  tints  in  a  picture.  Jane  Derwent  was  just  seventeen 
years  old  that  day. 

"  And  so  you  will  go,  Mary,  dear — though  this  is  my  birth-day  ? 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  cut  the  canoe  loose  and  set  it  adrift." 


THE     ISLAND     COVE.  35 

"  And  then  how  will  your  company  get  to  the  island  ?"  said 
Mary  Derwent,  raising  her  eyes  to  the  blooming  face  of  her  sis 
ter,  while  a  quiet  smile  stole  out  from  their  blue  depths. 

"  I  don't  care  for  company  1  I  don't  care  for  anything — you 
are  so  contrary — so  hateful.  You  never  stay  at  home  when  the 
young  folks  are  coming — it's  too  bad  I"  And  Jane  flung  herself 
on  the  grass  which  surrounded  the  little  cove  where  a  bark  canoe 
lay  rocking  in  the  water,  and  indulged  her  petulance  by  tearing 
up  the  strawberry-vines  which  her  sister  had  planted  there. 

"  Don't  spoil  my  strawberry-bed,"  said  Mary,  bending  over 
the  wayward  girl  and  kissing  her  forehead.  "  Come,  be  good- 
natured  and  let  me  go  ;  I  will  bring  you  some  honeysuckle-ap 
ples,  and  a  whole  canoe  full  of  wood-lilies.  Do  say  yes  ;  I  can't 
bear  to  see  you  discontented  to-day  1" 

"  I  would  not  care  about  it  so  much — though  it  is  hard  that 
you  will  never  go  to  frolics,  nor  enjoy  yourself  like  other  folks — 
but  Edward  Claik  made  me  promise  to  keep  you  at  home  to 
day." 

A  color,  like  the  delicate  tinting  of  a  shell,  stole  into  Mary's 
cheek,  as  it  lay  caressingly  against  the  rich  damask  of  her 
sister's. 

"  If  no  one  but  Edward  were  coming,  I  should  be  glad  to 
stay,"  she  replied,  in  a  soft  voice  ;  "  but  you  have  invited  a  great 
many,  hav'n't  you  ?  Who  will  be  here  from  the  village  ?" 

Jane  began  to  enumerate  the  young  men  who  had  been  invited 
to  her  birth-day  party  ;  they  held  precedence  in  her  heart,  and 
consequently  in  her  speech  ;  for,  to  own  the  truth,  Jane  Derwent 
was  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  rustic  coquette  ;  a  beauty,  and  a 
spoiled  one  ;  but  a  warm-hearted,  kind  girl  notwithstanding. 

"  There  are  the  Ward  boys,  and  John  Smith,  Walter  Butler 
from  the  fort,  and  Jason  Wintermoot " 

Jane  stopped,  for  she  felt  a  shiver  run  over  the  form  around 
which  her  arms  were  flung,  as  she  pronounced  the  last  name,  and 
saw  the  cheek  of  her  sister  blanch  to  the  whiteness  of  snow. 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  she  said,  timidly,  after  a  moment ;  "  I  am 


36  MARY      DEE  WENT. 

sorry  I  asked  him.  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  Mary,  are 
you  r 

11  Angry,  no  !  I  never  am  angry  with  you,  Jane.  I  don't  want 
to  refuse  you  anything  on  your  birth-day — but  I  will  not  meet 
these  people.  You  cannot  guess — you  can  have  no  idea  of  my 
sufferings  when  any  one  looks  upon  me  except  those  I  love  very, 
very  dearly." 

"  That  is  just  what  they  say,'*  replied  Jane,  while  a  flush  of 
generous  feeling  spread  over  her  forehead. 

"What,  who  says?"  inquired  Mary,  for  her  heart  trembled 
with  a  dread  that  some  allusion  was  threatened  to  her  person, 
and  she  felt  as  if  the  sister  whom  she  loved  so  dearly  would  be 
shut  out  from  her  heart  forever,  were  she  to  repeat  the  unfeeling 
remarks  which  she  suspected  to  have  been  made  on  her  deformity 
by  those  who  had  been  the  playmates  of  her  childhood. 

After  her  question,  there  was  a  moment's  silence.  They  had 
both  arisen,  and  the  deformed  girl  stood  before  her  sister  with  a 
tremulous  lip  and  a  wavering,  anxious  eye.  The  expression  of 
her  face  was  like  that  of  a  troubled  angel.  Yet  with  the  jealous 
restlessness  of  spirit,  which,  in  such  natures,  never  tastes  one 
drop  of  a  bitter  cup  without  draining  it  to  the  dregs,  as  if  en 
amored  with  soul-torture,  she  could  not  help  putting  her  question 
again  somewhat  impatiently. 

"  Why  will  you  not  tell  me  what  they  say  ?" 

Jane  was  quick-witted,  and,  with  many  faults,  very  kind  of 
heart.  When  she  saw  the  distress  visible  in  her  unfortunate 
sister's  face,  she  formed  her  reply  with  more  of  tact  and  kind 
feeling  than  with  strict  regard  to  truth. 

"  Why,  it  is  nothing,"  she  said  ;  "  the  girls  always  loved  you, 
and  petted  you  so  much  when  we  were  little  children  in  school 
together,  that  they  don't  like  it  when  you  go  away  without  see 
ing  them.  They  think  that  you  are  grown  proud  since  you  have 
taken  to  reading  and  talking  fine  language.  You  don't  have  to 
work  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  they  feel  slighted,  and  think  you  put 


THE     ISLAND     COVE.  37 

Oh,  it  is  happiness  to  feel  that  we  are  still  cared  for  and 
sought  after  by  those  whom  we  have  supposed  estranged  from 
us  ;  and  the  highly  gifted — those  whom  we  might  suppose  inde 
pendent  of  social  ties  from  their  mental  resources,  are  perhaps 
the  most  susceptible  to  kindly  feelings  in  others  ;  the  most  un 
willing  to  break  any  of  those  sacred  illusions  which  keep  the 
heart  young.  Tears  stole  into  the  eyes  of  the  deformed  girl, 
and  a  sudden  light,  the  sunshine  of  an  affectionate  heart,  broke 
over  her  face  as  she  said, 

"  It  is  not  that,  my  sister.  I  have  loved  them  very  much  all 

these  years  that  I  have  not  seen  them  ;  but  since  that  day 

sister,  you  are  very  good,  and  oh,  how  beautiful  ;  but  you  cannot 
dream  how  a  poor  creature  like  myself  feels  when  happy  people 
are  enjoying  life  together.  Without  sympathy,  without  compan 
ions,  hunch-backed  and  crooked.  Tell  me,  Jane,  am  I  not  hide 
ous  to  look  upon  ?" 

This  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Mary  had  permitted  a 
consciousness  of  her  malformation  to  escape  her  in  words.  The 
question  was  put  in  a  voice  of  mingled  agony  and  bitterness, 
wrung  from  the  very  depths  of  her  heart.  She  fell  upon  the 
grass  as  she  spoke,  and  with  her  face  to  the  ground,  lay  grovel 
ling  at  her  sister's  feet,  like  some  wounded  animal ;  for  now  that 
the  loveliness  of  her  face  was  concealed,  her  form  seemed  scarcely 
human. 

All  that  was  generous  in  the  nature  of  Jane  Derwent,  swelled 
in  her  heart  as  she  bent  over  her  sister.  The  sudden  tears  fell 
like  rain,  glistening  in  drops  upon  the  warm  damask  of  her 
cheeks,  and  filling  her  voice  with  affectionate  sobs,  as  she  strove 
to  lift  her  from  the  ground  ;  but  Mary  shrunk  away  with  a 
shudder,  and  kneeling  down,  Jane  raised  her  head  with  gentle 
violence  to  her  bosom. 

"  Hideous  I  oh,  Mary,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  Don't  shake 
and  tremble  in  this  manner.  You  are  not  frightful  nor  homely  ; 
only  think  how  beautiful  your  hair  is.  Edward  Clark  says  he 
never  saw  anything  so  bright  and  silky  as  your  curls — he  said 


38  M  A  R  Y      D  E  11  W  E  N  T  . 

so,  indeed  he  did,  Mary  ;  and  the  other  day  when  he  was  read 
ing  about  Eve,  in  the  little  book  you  love  so  well,  he  told  grand 
mother  that  he  fancied  Eve  must  have  had  a  face  just  like 
yours." 

"  Did  Edward  say  this  ?"  murmured  the  poor  deformed,  as 
Jane  half  lifted,  half  persuaded  her  from  the  ground,  and  with 
one  arm  flung  over  her  neck,  was  pressing  the  face  she  had  been 
praising  to  her  own  troubled  bosom. 

Poor  Mary,  though  naturally  tall,  was  so  distorted  that  when 
she  stood  upright  her  head  scarcely  reached  a  level  with  the 
graceful  bust  of  her  sister,  and  Jane  stooped  low  to  plant  reas 
suring  kisses  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Did  he  say  it,  Mary  ?  Yes,  he  certainly  did  ;  and  so  did  I 
say  it.  Look  here."  And  eagerly  gathering  the  folds  of  a  large 
shawl  over  the  shoulders  of  the  deformed,  she  gently  drew  her  to 
the  brink  of  the  basin,  where  the  canoes  still  lay  moored. 
"  Look  there,"  she  exclaimed,  as  they  bent  together  over  the 
edge  of  the  green  sward  ;  "  can  you  wish  for  anything  hand 
somer  than  that  face  ?  Dear,  good  Mary,  look." 

The  two  young  girls  did,  indeed,  form  a  beautiful  picture,  as 
they  stood,  with  their  arms  interlaced,  bending  over  the  tranquil 
waters.  Never  had  that  smooth  surface  mirrored  two  faces 
more  strikingly  lovely,  yet  more  unlike  in  their  beauty."  Un 
consciously  had  they  taken  the  attitude  a  painter  would  have 
chosen.  The  head  and  half  the  form  of  the  elder,  from  the  finely 
rounded  shoulders  down  to  the  graceful  outline  of  the  waist, 
was  flung  back  with  the  exactness  of  life.  Her  seventeenth  birth 
day  had  brought  its  richest  bloom  to  her  cheek,  and  recent 
excitement  lent  a  brilliancy  to  her  eyes,  and  an  intellectual 
beauty  to  the  forehead,  which  was  scarcely  natural  to  them. 
Her  head  was  partly  bent,  and  a  profusion  of  rich  curls  fell  over 
her  graceful  neck.  A  wreath  of  crab-apple  blossoms  had  been 
twined  among  them  in  honor  of  her  party,  and  thus  she  was 
mirrored,  half  concealing  the  form  of  her  sister,  whose  face,  in 
all  its  spiritual  loveliness,  beamed  out  from  the  protection  of  her 


THE     ISLAND     COVE.  OU 

arm.  It  was  the  head  of  a  cherub,  sheltered  and  cherished  by  a 
form  of  earthly  beauty. 

An  elm  tree  waved  its  branches  over  them,  and  the  sunshine 
came  shimmering  through  the  leaves  with  a  wavy  light.  The 
river  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sky,  and  the  sisters  were  still 
gazing  on  the  lovely  faces  speaking  to  theirs  from  its  clear 
depths,  when  a  canoe  swept  suddenly  round  the  grassy  promon 
tory  which  formed  one  side  of  the  cove. 

With  a  dash  of  the  oar,  the  fairy  skiff  shot,  like  an  arrow,  into 
the  basin,  and  its  occupant,  a  young  man  of  perhaps  two-aud- 
twenty,  leaped  upon  the  green  sward.  The  sisters  started  from 
their  embrace.  A  glad  smile  dimpled  the  round  cheek  of  the 
elder,  as  she  stepped  forward  to  greet  the  new  comer.  But 
Mary  drew  her  shawl  more  closely  over  her  person,  and  shrunk 
timidly  back,  with  a  quickened  pulse,  a  soft  welcome  beaming 
from  her  eyes,  and  her  face  deluged  with  a  flood  of  soft  rosy 
color,  which  she  strove  to  conceal  with  the  tresses  that  fell  about 
her  like  a  golden  mist. 

"  I  have  just  come  in  time  to  keep  you  at  home  for  once," 
said  the  youth,  approaching  the  timid  girl,  after  having  gaily 
shaken  hands  with  her  sister.  "  I  am  sure  we  shall  persuade 
you" 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  call  from  Jane,  who  had  run  off  to 
the  other  side  of  the  cove,  no  doubt  with  the  hope  of  being  speed 
ily  followed  by  her  visitor. 

"  Come  here,  Edward,  do,  and  break  me  some  of  this  sweet- 
brier  ;  it  scratches  my  fingers  so." 

Clark  dropped  Mary's  hand  and  went  to  obey  this  capricious 
summons. 

"  Don't  try  to  persuade  Mary  to  stay,"  said  Jane,  as  she  took 
a  quantity  of  the  sweet-brier  from  the  hands  of  her  compo,nion. 
"  She  is  as  restless  when  we  have  company  as  the  mocking-bird 
you  gave  us  ;  and  which  we  never  could  tame,  besides,"  she 
added,  with  a  little  hesitation,  "  Wintermoot  will  be  here,  and 
she  don't  like  him." 


40  MARYDERWENT. 

"  It  were  strange  if  she  did,"  replied  the  youth  ;  and  a  frown 
passed  over  his  fine  forehead  ;  "  but  tell  me,  Jane,  how  it  hap 
pened  that  you  invited  Col.  Butler,  when  you  know  that  I  dis 
like  him  almost  as  much  as  she  does  Wintermoot  ?" 

Jane  looked  confused,  and  like  most  people  when  they  intend 
to  persist  in  a  wrong,  began  to  get  into  a  passion. 

"  I  am  sure  I  thought  I  had  the  right  to  ask  any  one  I 
pleased,"  she  said,  petulantly  and  gatherhng  her  forehead  into  a 
frown. 

"  Yes,  but  one  might  expect  that  it  would  scarcely  please  you, 
to  encourage  a  man  who  has  so  often  insulted  your  house  with 
unwelcome  visits  ;  and  Wintermoot — my  blood  boils  when  I 
think  of  the  wretch  !  Poor  Mary,  I  had  hoped  to  see  her  enjoy 
herself  to-day  ;  but  now  she  must  wander  off  alone  as  usual. 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  go  with  her." 

And  turning  swiftly  away  from  the  angry  beauty,  Clark  went 
to  Mary,  spoke  a  few  words,  and  they  stepped  into  his  canoe 
together.  But  he  had  scarcely  pushed  it  from  the  shore,  when 
Jane  ran  forward  and  leaped  in  after  them. 

"  If  you  go,  so  will  //"  she  said  angrily,  seating  herself  in  the 
bottom  of  the  canoe. 

Mary  was  amazed  and  perplexed.  She  looked  into  the  stern, 
displeased  face  of  the  young  man,  and  then  at  the  sullen  brow 
of  her  sister. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  she  inquired,  gently,  "  what  is  the 
matter,  Jane  ?" 

Jane  began  to  sob,  but  gave  no  answer,  and  they  rowed  across 
the  river  in  silence.  The  canoe  landed  at  the  foot  of  a  broken 
precipice,  that  hung  over  the  river  like  a  ruined  battlement. 
Clark  assisted  Mary  to  the  shore,  and  was  about  to  accompany 
her  up  the  foot  path,  which  wound  over  the  precipice,  but  Jane, 
who  had  angrily  refused  his  help  to  leave  the  boat,  began  to  fear 
that  she  had  carried  her  resentment  too  far,  and  timidly  called 
him  back. 

A  few  angry  words  from  the  young  man — expostulation  and 


THE     ISLAND     COVE. 

tears  from  the  maiden,  all  of  which  a  bend  in  the  path  prevented 
Mary  observing  ;  and  then,  Clark  went  up  the  hill — told  the 
solitary  girl  not  to  wander  far — to  be  careful  and  not  sit  on  the 
damp  ground — and  that  he  would  come  for  her  by  sun-down  ; 
the  young  folks  would  have  left  the  island  by  that  time.  They 
were  all  going  down  to  Wilkesbarre,  to  have  a  dance  in  the 
school-house.  He  and  Jane  were  going,  but  they  would  wait 
and  take  her  home  first. 

Edward  was  almost  out  of  breath  as  he  said  all  this,  and  he 
appeared  anxious  to  go  back  to  the  canoe.  But  Mary  had  not 
expected  him  to  join  her  lonely  wanderings,  and  his  solicitude 
about  her  safety,  so  considerate  and  kind,  went  to  her  heart  like 
a  breath  of  summer  air.  She  turned  up  the  mountain  path, 
lonely  and  companionless  ;  but  very  happy.  Her  eyes  were  full 
of  pleasant  tears,  and  her  heart  was  like  a  flower  unfolding  to 
the  sunshine.  There  is  pleasure  in  complying  with  the  slightest 
request  from  those  we  love  ;  and  Mary  confined  her  ramble  to 
the  precipice  and  the  shore,  merely  because  Edward  Clark  had 
asked  her  not  to  wander  far.  She  saw  him  land  on  the  island 
with  her  sister,  while  half  sitting,  half  reclining  on  a  crag  of  the 
broken  rock,  at  whose  foot  she  had  landed.  She  saw  the  boat 
sent  again,  and  again,  to  the  opposite  shore,  returning  each 
time,  laden  with  her  former  companions. 

By  degrees  she  became  very  sad.  The  melancholy  and  the 
loneliness  of  her  position  pressed  itself  gloomily  upon  her  ;  she 
would  have  given  worlds,  had  she  possessed  them,  to  have  min 
gled  in  equality  with  the  gay  beings,  flitting  through  the  trees, 
and  wandering  over  the  green  sward  of  her  island  home.  The 
ringing  laugh,  and  the  music  of  cheerful  words,  came  swelling  on 
the  wind,  to  her  isolated  seat.  Happiness  and  sunshine  were  all 
around  her  ;  budding-moss,  bird-songs,  and  flowers  ;  but  her 
heart  was  weighed  down  with  a  sense  of  its  utter  loneliness. 
Then  she  would  think  of  Edward  Clark,  and  of  his  late  kind 
words,  and  wonder  why  they  had  ceased  to  make  her  happy. 
Dwelling  on  this  sweet  theme,  she  fell  into  a  dreamy  state  of  con- 


4:2  HARYDERWENT. 

tent,  and  dropped  asleep  under  the  shadow  of  a  drooping  birch, 
which  grew  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock  on  which  she  lay. 

Her  sleep  was  very  quiet  and  refreshing.  A  mocking-bird 
had  perched  himself  in  the  tree,  above  her,  and  his  melody  float 
ed  in  her  dreams.  They  were  of  a  far-off  world  ;  Edward  Clark 
was  there,  and  it  was  her  home  ;  but  her  form  was  changed,  and 
she  had  become  beautiful — beautiful  as  her  sister  Jane. 


CHAPTEK    VII. 

TAHMEROO. 

SHE  was  aroused  by  the  rustling  of  branches  over  her  head,  fol 
lowed  by  a  bounding  step,  as  of  a  deer  in  flight ;  then  a  young 
girl  sprang  out  upon  a  point  of  rock  which  shot  over  the  platform 
on  which  she  lay,  and  bending  over  the  edge,  gazed  eagerly 
down  upon  the  river. 

Mary  held  her  breath  and  remained  motionless,  for  her  poetical 
fancy  was  aroused  by  the  singular  and  picturesque  attitude  of 
the  figure.  There  was  a  wildness  and  grace  in  it,  which  she 
had  never  witnessed  before.  At  the  first  glance,  she  supposed 
the  stranger  to  be  a  wandering  Indian  girl,  belonging  to  some 
of  the  tribes  that  roamed  the  neighboring  forests.  But  her  com 
plexion,  though  darker  than  the  darkest  brunette  of  our  own 
race,  was  still  too  light  for  any  of  the  savage  nations  yet  seen 
in  the  wilderness.  It  was  of  a  clear,  rich,  brown,  and  the  blood 
glowed  through  the  round  cheeks  like  the  blush  on  a  ripe  peach. 

Her  hair  was  long,  profusely  braided,  and  of  a  deep  black  ; 
not  the  dull  lustreless  color  common  to  the  Indians  ;  but  with 
a  bloom  upon  it  like  that  shed  by  the  sunlight  on  the  wing  of  a 
flying  raven.  She  appeared  to  be  neither  Indian  nor  white,  but 
of  a  mixed  race.  The  spirited  and  wild  grace  of  the  savage  was 


TAHMEKOO.  43 

blended  with  a  delicacy  of  feature  and  nameless  elegance  more 
peculiar  to  the  whites.  In  her  dress,  also,  might  be  traced  the 
same  union  of  barbarism  and  refinement — a  string  of  bright 
scarlet  berries  encircling  her  head,  and  interwoven  with  the  long 
braids  of  her  hair,  glanced  in  the  sunlight,  as  she  moved  her  head, 
like  a  chain  of  dim  rubies. 

A  robe  of  gorgeous  chintz,  where  crimson  and  deep  brown 
were  the  predominating  colors,  was  confined  at  the  waist  by  a 
narrow  belt  of  wampum,  and  terminated  a  little  below  the  knee, 
in  a  double  row  of  heavy  fringe,  leaving  the  flexible  and  slender 
ankles  free  and  uncovered.  Her  robe  fell  open  at  the  shoulders  ; 
but  the  swelling  outline  of  the  neck,  thus  exposed,  was  unbroken, 
except  by  a  necklace  of  cherry-colored  cornelian,  from  which  a 
small  heart  of  the  same  blood-red  stone  fell  to  her  bosom.  The 
round  and  tapering  beauty  of  her  arms  was  fully  revealed  and 
unencumbered  by  a  single  ornament.  Her  moccasins  were  of 
dressed  deerskin,  fringed  and  wrought  with  tiny  beads,  inter 
woven  with  a  vine  of  silk  buds  and  leaves  done  in  such  needle 
work  as  was  in  those  days  only  taught  to  the  most  refined  and 
highly  educated  class  of  whites.  Mary  had  never  seen  anything 
so  exquisitely  beautiful  in  its  workmanship  as  that  embroidery, 
or  so  brightly  picturesque  as  the  whole  appearance  of  the 
stranger. 

For  more  than  a  minute  the  wild  girl  retained  the  position 
assumed  by  her  last  bounding  step.  There  was  something  statue- 
like  in  the  tension  of  those  rounded  and  slender  limbs,  as  she 
stood  on  the  shelf  of  rock,  bending  eagerly  over  the  edge,  with 
her  weight  thrown  on  one  foot  and  the  other  strained  back,  as 
if  preparing  for  a  spring.  All  the  grace,  but  not  the  chilliness, 
of  marble  lived  in  those  boldly  poised  limbs,  so  full  of  warm, 
healthy  life.  There  was  spirit  and  fire  in  their  very  repose,  for 
after  an  eager  glance  up  and  down  the  river,  she  settled  back, 
and  with  her  arms  folded,  remained  for  a  moment  in  an  attitude 
of  dejection  and  disappointment. 

A  merry  laugh,  which  came  ringing  over  the  waters,  from  the 


44  MAKY      DEE  WENT. 

Island,  drew  her  attention  to  the  group  of  revellers,  glancing  in 
and  out  of  the  shrubbery  which  surrounded  Mother  Derwent's 
dwelling.  Flinging  back  her  hair  with  a  gesture  of  fiery  im 
patience,  she  sprang  upward  and  dragged  down  the  branch  of  a 
young  tree,  which  she  grasped  for  support,  while  throwing 
herself  still  more  boldly  over  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff. 

Mary  almost  screamed  with  affright.  But  there  was  some 
thing  grand  in  the  daring  of  the  girl,  which  aroused  her  admira 
tion,  even  more  than  her  fear.  She  knew  that  the  breaking  of 
that  slender  branch  would  precipitate  her  down  a  sheer  descent 
into  the  river.  But  she  felt  as  if  the  very  sound  of  a  human 
voice  would  startle  her  into  eternity. 

Motionless  with  dread,  she  fixed  her  eyes,  like  a  fascinated 
bird,  on  the  strange  being  thus  hovering  over  death,  so  fearlessly 
and  so  beautiful.  All  at  once,  those  bright,  dark  eyes  kindled, 
one  arm  was  flung  eagerly  outward — her  red  lips  parted,  and  a 
gush  of  music,  like  the  song  of  a  mocking-bird,  but  louder  and 
richer,  burst  from  them. 

Mary  started  forward  in  amazement.  She  could  not  convince 
herself  that  it  was  not  the  notes  of  a  real  bird.  She  turned  her 
head  and  peered  among  the  leaves  of  the  birch,  where  she  fancied 
the  songster,  which  had  lulled  her  to  sleep,  still  nestled  himself ; 
but  it  had  flown  on  the  approach  of  the  stranger.  Before  she 
could  lift  her  eyes  to  the  cliff  again,  a  low,  shrill  whistle  came 
sharply  up  from  the  direction  of  the  Island.  She  caught  one 
glance  of  those  kindling  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes  as  the  strange 
wild  girl  leaped  back  from  the  cliff — a  gleam  of  sun-light  on 
her  long  hair,  as  she  darted  into  a  thicket  of  wild  cherry-trees — 
and  there  was  no  sign  of  her  remaining,  save  a  rushing  sound  of 
the  young  trees,  as  the  bent  limb  swayed  back  to  its  fellows. 
Again  the  notes,  as  of  a  wild,  eager  bird,  arose  from  a  hollow 
bank  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  ;  and,  after  a  moment,  that 
shrill  whistle  was  repeated  from  the  water,  and  Mary  distinctly 
heard  the  dipping  of  an  oar. 

She  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  which  had  formed  her  con- 


TAHMEKOO.  45 

cealment,  and  looked  down  upon  the  river.  A  canoe,  rowed  by 
a  single  oarsman,  was  making  its  way  swiftly  from  the  Island. 
She  could  not  distinguish  the  face  of  the  occupant  ;  but  there 
was  a  band  of  red  paint  around  the  edge  of  the  canoe,  and  she 
remembered  that  Edward  Clark's,  alone,  was  so  ornamented.  It 
was  the  same  that  had  brought  her  from  the  Island.  Did  the 
signal  come  from  him — from  Edward  Clark  ?  What  had  he  m 
common  with  the  wild,  strange  girl,  who  had  broken  upon  her 
solitude  ?  A  thrill  of  pain,  such  as  she  had  never  dreamed  of 
before,  shot  through  her  heart,  as  she  asked  these  questions. 
She  would  have  watched  the  landing  of  the  canoe,  but  all  strength 
suddenly  left  her,  and  she  sunk  back  to  a  fragment  of  stone, 
almost  powerless,  and  in  extreme  suffering. 

In  a  little  more  than  an  hour,  she  saw  the  same  solitary  rower 
crossing  the  river,  but  with  more  deliberate  motion.  She  watched 
him  while  he  moored  the  canoe  in  the  little  cove,  and  caught 
another  glimpse  of  him  as  he  turned  a  corner  of  her  dwelling, 
and  mingled  with  the  group  of  young  persons,  who  were  drinking 
tea,  on  the  green  sward  in  front. 

It  was  a  weary  hour  to  the  deformed  girl,  before  the  party 
broke  up  and  were  transported  to  the  opposite  shore,  where 
farm-wagons  stood  ready  to  convey  them  to  Wilkesbarre.  The 
sun  was  almost  down,  and  the  Island  quiet  again,  when  she  saw 
two  persons  coming  from  the  house  to  the  cove.  She  arose,  and 
folding  her  shawl  about  her,  prepared  to  descend  to  the  shore. 
The  ledge,  on  which  she  had  spent  the  afternoon,  towered  back 
from  the  river  in  a  mass  of  broken  rocks,  crowned  by  a  thick 
growth  of  stunted  pines  and  hemlocks.  The  side  along  which 
the  footpath  wound,  fell  with  an  abrupt  descent,  to  a  deep  ravine 
which  opened  to  the  river — covered  with  loose  soil,  interspersed 
with  fragments  of  rocks,  and  cut  up  into  hollows,  where  the 
mountain  stream  had  washed  away  the  forest  sward.  The  whole 
was  overrun  with  a  luxuriant  undergrowth,  and  a  few  large 
white  pines  had  anchored  themselves  in  the  hollows. 


46  MAEYDEKWENT. 

Mary  had  walked  half  way  down  the  ledge,  when  she  stopped 
abruptly  in  the  path  ;  for  sitting  on  the  moss  beneath  one  of 
these  pines  was  the  strange  girl  who  had  so  excited  her  wonder. 
Mary's  slow  step  had  not  disturbed  her,  and  unconscious  of  a 
witness,  she  was  unbraiding  the  string  of  berries  from  her  hair, 
and  supplying  their  place  with  a  rope  of  twisted  coral.  The 
strings  of  scarlet  ribbon  with  which  she  knotted  it  on  her  temple 
were  bright,  and  had  evidently  never  been  tied  before.  Mary's 
heart  beat  painfully,  and  she  hurried  forward  as  if  some  fierce 
animal  had  sprung  up  in  her  path.  An  uncontrollable  repulsion 
to  that  wild  and  beautiful  girl,  which  she  neither  understood  nor 
tried  to  account  for,  seized  upon  her.  When  she  reached  the 
shore,  the  canoe,  with  Edward  Clark  and  her  sister  seated  in  it, 
was  making  leisurely  towards  the  mouth  of  the  ravine,  and  she 
sat  down  on  the  shadowy  side  of  an  oak  to  await  their  coming. 
Their  approach  was  so  noiseless,  that  she  did  not  know  they  had 
reached  the  shore,  till  the  voice  of  Edward  Clark  apprised  her 
of  it.  He  was  speaking  earnestly  to  her  sister,  and  there  was 
both  agitation  and  deep  tenderness  in  his  voice — a  breaking  forth 
of  the  heart's  best  feelings,  which  she  had  never  witnessed  in  him 
before. 

"  No,  Jane,"  he  said,  in  a  resolute  voice,  shaken  with  a  sor 
rowful  tremor  ;  "  you  must  now  choose  between  that  man  and 
me  ;  there  can  be  nothing  of  rivalry  between  us  ;  I  heartily  de 
spise  him  1  I  am  not  jealous — I  could  not  be  a  creature  so 
unworthy  ;  but  it  grieves  me  to  feel  that  you  can  place  him 
for  a  moment  on  a  level  with  yourself.  If  you  persist  in  this 
degrading  coquetry,  you  are  unworthy  of  the  love  which  I  have 
given  you.  Forgive  me,  Jane,  if  I  speak  harshly  ;  don't  cry — it 
grieves  me  to  wound  your  feelings,  but " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  sound  as  of  some  one  falling  heavily 
to  the  ground.  He  leaped  from  the  canoe,  and  there,  behind 
the  great  oak,  lay  Mary  Derwent,  helpless  and  insensible. 

"  She  has  wandered  too  far,  and  exhausted  herself,"  said  the 
agitated  young  man,  as  he  bore  her  to  the  canoe.  "  Sit  down, 


THE   TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPEST.    47 

Jane,  and  take  her  head  in  your  lap — your  grandmother  will 
know  what  to  do  for  her." 

Jane  reached  forth  her  arms  and  received  the  insensible  head 
on  her  bosom.  She  turned  her  face  petulently  away  from  that 
of  her  lover,  and  repulsed  him  with  sullen  discontent  when,  in 
his  attempts  to  restore  Mary,  his  hand  happened  to  touch  hers. 

"  Set  her  down,"  she  said,  pushing  him  indignantly  away. 
"  Attend  to  your  oars  ;  we  neither  want  your  help  or  yoor  ill- 
natured  grumblings.  I  tell  you,  Ned  Clark,  you  are  just  the 
Grossest  creature  I  ever  saw.  Take  that  for  your  pains  !" 

Cark  did  not  answer  this  insolent  speech,  but  gravely  took  np 
the  oars  and  pushed  off. 

They  were  half  way  across  the  river,  when  Mary  began  to 
recover  animation.  Edward  laid  down  his  oar  and  taking  her 
hand  in  his,  was  about  to  speak  ;  but  she  drew  it  away  with  a 
faint  shudder,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  sister's  bosom,  re 
mained  still  and  silent  as  before. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPEST. 

TAHMEROO,  the  Indian  girl,  was  sitting  under  the  pine,  as 
Mary  Derwent  had  left  her.  With  the  coral  but  half  twisted  in 
her  hair,  she  had  paused  in  her  graceful  task,  and,  sinking 
gently  back  to  the  bank  of  moss  which  formed  her  seat,  reclined 
on  one  elbow,  with  her  long  tresses  unbraided,  and  floating  in 
wavy  masses  over  her  person.  She  was  yielding  to  the  repose 
of  a  soft  and  dreamy  re  very,  new,  and  very  sweet  to  her  wild, 
young  heart,  when  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  dash  of  an  oar 
aroused  her.  She  started  to  her  feet  and  listened.  The  fire 
flashed  back  to  those  large  dark  eyes,  but  late  so  pleasant  and 


48  MARY      DERWENT. 

soft  in  their  expression,  and  a  rich  crimson  rushed  to  her  cheek. 
The  voices  ceased  for  a  moment,  then  were  renewed,  and  the 
rapid  beat  of  the  paddle  became  still  more  audible. 

Tahmeroo  sprang  forward,  and  ran  up  to  a  point  of  the  hill 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  river.  The  little  canoe,  with  its 
band  of  red  paint,  was  making  from  the  shore,  and  in  it  sat  Jane 
Derwent,  with  the  head  of  the  deformed  girl  resting  in  her  lap. 
The  back  of  the  oarsman  was  towards  the  shore;  his  head  was 
bent,  and  the  eyes,  the  beautiful  eyes  of  Jane  Derwent,  were 
fixed  on  him,  with  an  expression  which  Tahmeroo's  heart,  un 
learned  as  it  was,  taught  her  to  understand.  A  storm  of  sur 
prise,  anger  and  fear,  rushed  through  the  heart  of  the  young 
Indian.  The  oarsman  turned  his  head,  and  the  face  was  re 
vealed.  Then  a  smile,  vivid  and  bright  as  a  burst  of  sunshine 
after  a  tempest,  broke  over  her  features. 

Tahmeroo  breathed  deeply  and  turned  away.  It  seemed  as  if 
an  arrow  had  been  withdrawn  from  her  heart  by  the  sight  of 
that  face.  She  hurried  down  the  hill  towards  a  clump  of  black 
alders  that  overhung  the  river's  brink,  and  unmoored  a  light 
canoe  hitherto  concealed  beneath  the  dark  foliage.  Placing 
herself  in  the  bottom,  she  gave  two  or  three  vigorous  strokes 
with  the  paddle,  and  shot  like  a  bird  up  the  stream. 

As  Tahmeroo  proceeded  up  the  river,  the  scenery,  till  then 
half  pastoral,  half  sublime,  became  more  savage  and  gloomy  in 
its  aspect.  Huge  rocks  shot  up  against  the  sky  in  picturesque 
grandeur  ;  the  foliage  which  clothed  them  grew  dusky  in  the 
waning  light,  and  fell  back  to  the  ravines  in  dark,  heavy 
shadows.  A  gloom  hung  about  the  towering  precipices,  and  the 
thick  masses  of  vegetation,  like  funeral  drapery,  swathing  the 
pillars  and  wild  arches  of  a  monastic  ruin.  It  was  the  darkness 
of  a  gathering  tempest.  There  was  something  sublime  and 
almost  awful  in  the  gradual  and  silent  mustering  of  the  ele 
ments. 

Tahmeroo  was  of  a  savage  race,  and  she  loved  the  wild  and 
fierce  in  nature  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  daring  spirit  ;  but  the 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPEST.    49 

red  blood  that  kindled  her  heart  to  more  than  feminine  courage, 
was  mingled  with  that  of  a  gentle  and  civilized  class.  She  was 
but  half  an  Indian — all  a  woman — and  her  high  spirit  cowered 
beneath  the  sombre  magnificence  of  the  hour  and  scene.  Though 
eager  to  reach  her  destination,  her  arm  relaxed  its  vigor,  and  the 
little  canoe  crept  timidly  up  the  blackened  waters,  while  she  looked 
anxiously  about,  now  on  the  frowning  banks,  then  up  into  the 
darkened  sky. 

The  broken  clouds,  surging  up  from  the  west  like  troops  of 
frightened  birds  with  their  wings  in  motion,  aroused  her  to  fresh 
exertion.  She  bent  to  her  task  with  an  energy  that  sent  the 
perspiration  like  rain  drops  to  her  forehead.  The  paddles 
glanced  rapidly  in  and  out  of  the  water,  and  the  canoe  sped  on 
and  on,  with  the  velocity  of  a  sparrow-hawk  in  the  air.  At 
length  it  curved  round  with  a  bold  sweep,  and  shot  into  the  stu 
pendous  gap  through  which  the  Lackawanna  empties  its  coal- 
stained  tribute  into  the  bosom  of  the  Susquehanna.  It  was  like 
the  meeting  of  the  sinful  and  the  good  in  the  valley  of  death — 
the  commingling  of  those  streams  in  the  gathering  twilight — the 
one  so  dark  and  turbid,  the  other  so  bright  and  beautiful. 

Tahmeroo  rested,  for  a  moment,  as  she  entered  the  rocky  jaws 
of  the  mountain  ;  and  as  her  frail  bark  rocked  to  the  current  of 
wind  which  swept  down  the  gorge,  she  looked  around  with  a 
feeling  of  hushed  terror.  A  mountain,  cleft  in  twain  to  the 
foundation,  towered  to  the  sky  on  either  hand,  bold,  bleak,  and 
sombre.  Through  the  rent,  down  hundreds  of  feet  from  the 
summit,  crept  the  deep  river,  stealthily  and  slow,  like  a  huge 
serpent  winding  himself  around  the  bulwark  of  a  stronghold. 
The  darkness  of  the  forests  was  so  dense,  and  the  clouds  so 
heavy,  that  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  the  outline  of  the 
murky  waters  from  the  majestic  ramparts  through  which  they 
glided.  All  was  wild,  solemn,  and  gloomy. 

As  the  Indian  girl  looked  upward,  the  clouds  swept  back  for 
a  moment,  and  the  last  rays  of  sunset  fell  with  a  glaring  light  on 
the  bold  summit  of  the  mountain,  rendering  by  contrast  the 

4 


50  MARY      DER  WENT. 

depths  of  the  chasm  more  dreary  in  its  intense  shadow.  Tahme- 
roo  had  seen  the  gap  often  before,  but  never  at  that  hour,  or 
with  that  gloomy  blackness  of  shadow.  She  held  her  breath 
and  scarcely  dared  to  dip  her  paddle  in  the  water,  as  she  glided 
through  the  massive  portals  which  gave  them  an  outlet.  But 
when  the  gap  was  cleared,  she  proceeded  up  the  windings  of  the 
Susquehanna  with  a  firmer  hand  and  sterner  courage.  The 
threatened  storm  had  seemingly  passed  over,  and  a  few  stars 
trembled  in  the  depths  of  the  sky,  when  she  moored  her  canoe 
in  a  little  inlet,  washed  up  into  the  mouth  of  a  narrow  ravine, 
which  opened  on  the  river's  brink. 

Tahmeroo  tore  away  the  dry  brambles  and  brushwood  which 
clothed  the  entrance  of  the  defile,  and  made  her  way  through  a 
scarcely  defined  footpath  up  the  hill-side.  Through  this  ravine 
rushed  a  mountain  torrent,  known  to  the  Indians  as  the  Falling 
Spring,  which  filled  the  whole  forest  with  its  silvery  tumult. 

Tahmeroo  kept  close  to  the  banks  of  this  torrent,  helping 
herself  forward  by  the  brushwood  and  trailing  vines  that  grew 
thickly  on  its  margin.  Nothing  less  sure-footed  than  an  ante 
lope  could  have  forced  a  passage  through  the  broken  rocks  and 
steep  precipices  which  guarded  the  passage  of  this  stream  up  to 
its  source  in  Campbell's  Ledge.  A  little  way  from  the  river,  it 
name,  with  a  single  leap,  through  a  chasm  in  the  rocks,  and  lost 
itself,  in  a  storm  of  white  spray,  among  the  mossy  boulders 
which  choked  up  the  ravine. 

The  storm  had  mustered  again  so  blackly,  that  Tahmeroo 
could  scarcely  see  her  course,  but  lost  herself  among  the  rocks 
and  young  pines  below  the  fall.  Still  she  climbed  upward,  leap 
ing  from  rock  to  rock,  till  the  sheer  precipices  that  walled  in  the 
cataract  on  either  side,  obstructed  her  passage,  and  she  stood 
poised  half  way  up,  uncertain  which  way  to  turn,  or  how  to 
move. 

A  flash  of  lightning  revealed  her  position,  kindled  up  the 
young  trees  to  a  lurid  green;  gave  the  slippery  brown  precipices 
to  view,  and  shot  in  and  out  of  the  foaming  torrent,  as  it  leaped 


THE  TEMPTEK  AND  THE  TEMPEST.    51 

by  like  flashes  of  fire,  tearing  a  snow-drift  into  flakes  again,  and 
scattering  it  to  the  wind. 

The  lightening  revealed  her  peril  and  her  path.  She  sprang 
back  from  the  precipice,  from  which  the  next  leap  would  have 
precipitated  her  downward  with  the  cataract  into  the  depths  of 
the  ravine,  and  tore  her  way  into  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  keeping 
Campbell's  Ledge  on  the  right. 

A  less  vigorous  form  would  have  fainted  beneath  the  toil  of 
that  mountain  pass  ;  but  the  young  Indian  scarcely  thought  of 
fatigue  ;  for  a  dull,  moaning  sound  came  up  from  the  depths  of 
the  forest,  like  the  hollow  beat  of  a  far  off  ocean  ;  the  pent-up 
thunder  muttered  and  rumbled  among  the  black  clouds,  floating 
like  funeral  banners  above  her,  every  other  instant  pierced 
and  torn  with  arrowy  lightning.  These  signs  of  the  storm, 
gathering  so  fearfully  about  the  mountains,  terrified  and  be 
wildered  the  Indian  girl.  Though  a  wild  rover  of  the  forest,  she 
had  been  gently  nurtured,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  was 
alone  among  the  hills  after  nightfall. 

There  is  something  terrible  in  the  roar  of  thunder,  even  to 
those  who  understand  the  philosophy  of  the  elements.  It  sounds 
upon  the  heart  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet,  awakening  it  to  a 
sense  of  its  own  insignificance,  and  of  the  mighty  power  of  a 
Creator  !  Few  are  the  nerves  that  have  not  trembled,  or  the 
hearts  that  have  not  quaked,  when  the  artillery  of  heaven  was 
sounding  among  the  clouds,  and  the  arrows  of  the  sky  were 
shooting  earthward,  feathered  and  afire  with  principles  of  de 
struction.  Daring  and  wicked  must  that  spirit  be  which  refuses 
to  yield  its  belief  to  God,  when  his  power  is  made  audible  in  the 
voice  of  the  tempest  ! 

To  the  imaginative  and  superstitious  Indian  girl,  there  was  a 
terrific  mystery  in  the  hoarse  rolling  sound,  entombed,  as  it  were, 
in  the  depths  of  the  sky.  It  was,  in  her  belief,  the  dread  voice 
of  the  Great  Spirit  in  his  wrath — a  denunciation  fulminated  from 
the  portals  of  heaven  on  the  guilty  and  deceitful  of  earth.  Her 
heart  quailed  within  her,  and,  as  the  first  loud  peal  broke  upon 


52  MARYDERWENT. 

her  ear,  she  leaped  back,  clasped  one  hand  over  her  aching  eyes, 
then  sprang  onward  in  the  dark  path,  with  the  bound  of  a 
hunted  deer.  Now,  she  was  lost  in  the  darkness  of  a  ravine  ; 
then  a  flash  of  lightning  revealed  her  leaping  from  one  cliff  to 
another — clambering  up  the  face  of  a  precipice,  or  swinging  her 
self  over  the  narrow  chasms  by  the  saplings  which  the  fitful 
flashes  revealed  to  her. 

At  length  she  stood  on  a  high  ledge  of  rocks,  panting  and  in 
despair  ;  she  had  lost  the  path  that  led  to  the  Indian  encamp 
ment,  and  found  herself  on  the  sweep  of  a  mighty  precipice,  far 
above  the  valley.  After  one  wild,  hopeless  look  upon  the  sky, 
she  sunk  to  the  ground,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  mut 
tered,  in  a  trembling  and  husky  voice  : 

"  Tahmeroo  has  been  wicked.  She  has  acted  a  lie.  The  Great 
Spirit  is  very  angry.  Why  should  she  strive  to  shut  out  his 
voice  ?  Tahmeroo  can  die." 

While  she  spoke  there  was  a  hush  in  the  elements,  and  the 
sound  of  many  hoarse,  guttural  voices  arose  from  the  foot  of  the 
ledge.  The  terrified  Indian  lifted  her  head,  and  a  wild,  doubtful 
joy  gleamed  over  her  face  as  the  lightning  revealed  it,  with  the 
damp,  unbraided  hair  floating  back  from  the  pallid  temples,  the 
lips  parted,  and  the  eyes  charged  with  terror,  doubt,  and  eager 
joy.  She  listened  intently  for  a  moment,  then  sunk  cautiously  to 
the  ground,  as  one  who  fears  to  break  a  pleasant  delusion,  and 
crept  to  the  edge  of  the  rock. 

The  scene  on  which  she  looked  was  one  of  wild  and  gloomy 
beauty.  A  space  comprising  more  than  an  acre  of  the  richest 
greensward,  hedged  in  by  a  broken  circle  of  irregular  rocks  and 
ledges,  lay  beneath  her,  one  immense  basin,  scooped  in  the  heart 
of  the  mountain,  overflowing  with  verdure  and  alive  with  human 
beings.  Though  the  winds  were  swaying  the  mighty  forest  trees 
above,  as  if  they  had  been  rushes  in  its  path,  the  long,  thick 
grass  lay  motionless  in  the  bottom  of  the  rocky  basin,  and  tufts 
of  wild-roses  and  wood-honeysuckles  bloomed  tranquilly  in  the 
light  of  the  watch-fires.  The  broken  rocks  which  surrounded 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPEST.    53 

the  camping  ground  were  rough,  and  irregular  ;  but  it  was  only 
here  and  there  that  a  sharp  angle  broke  through  the  thick,  rich 
moss  which  clung  around  them,  or  could  be  seen  from  under  the 
shower  of  viny  foliage  falling  in  massive  festoons  from  the  clefts 
and  crevices  on  every  side. 

A  dozen  watch-fires  flashed  up  in  a  semi-circle,  flinging  a  broad 
light  over  the  whole  enclosure,  and  gleaming  redly  on  the  waving 
vines,  the  weeping  birches,  and  the  budding  hemlocks,  that  inter 
mingled  along  its  broken  ramparts.  A  hundred  swarthy  forms, 
half  naked  and  hideously  painted,  were  moving  about,  and  others 
lay  crouching  in  the  grass,  apparently  terrified  by  the  tempest 
gathering  so  blackly  above  them. 

The  untrodden  grass  and  fresh  herbage  told  that  this  hollow  had 
recently  been  made  a  place  of  encampment  ;  yet,  in  the  enclosure 
was  one  lodge,  small  and  but  rudely  constructed — a  sylvan  hut, 
more  picturesque  than  any  cabin  to  be  found  in  the  settlements. 
How  recently  it  had  been  constructed,  might  be  guessed 
by  the  green  branches  yet  fresh  on  the  half-hewn  logs.  A  score 
of  savage  hands  had  been  at  work  upon  it  the  whole  day,  for  the 
Chief  of  the  Shawnees  never  rested  in  the  open  air  with  the  lower 
members  of  his  tribe,  when  his  fierce  mother,  his  haughty  wife, 
or  beautiful  daughter,  was  of  his  hunting  party. 

Tahmeroo  had  wandered  upward  from  the  path  which  led  to 
the  encampment.  She  had  madly  clambered  to  the  highest 
chain  of  rocks  which  surrounded  the  enclosure,  when  she  should 
have  made  her  way  around  its  base  to  the  opening  which  gave 
egress  to  the  forest.  She  arose  from  the  edge  of  the  rock,  where 
she  had  been  lying  high  above  the  encampment,  and  was  about 
to  descend  to  the  path  she  had  missed,  when  a  sound,  like  the 
roar  and  tramp  of  a  great  army,  came  surging  up  from  the  forest. 
The  tall  trees  swayed  earthward,  flinging  their  branches  and 
green  leaves  to  the  whirlwind  as  it  swept  by.  Heavy  limbs  were 
twisted  off,  and  mighty  trunks,  splintered  midway,  mingled  the 
sharp  crash  of  their  fall  with  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  tempest. 
The  thunder  boomed  among  the  rocks,  peal  after  peal,  and  the 


54:  MAEY     DEE  WENT. 

quick  lightning  darted  through  the  heaving  trees  like  fiery  ser 
pents  wrangling  with  the  torn  foliage. 

The  very  mountain  seemed  to  tremble  beneath  the  maiden's 
feet.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  ledge,  and  with  her  face  buried 
in  its  moss,  lay  motionless,  but  quaking  at  heart,  as  the  whirl 
wind  rushed  over  her. 

A  still  more  fearful  burst  of  the  elements  struck  upon  the 
heights,  lifted  a  stout  oak  from  its  anchorage,  and  hurled  it  to 
the  earth.  The  splintered  trunk  fell  with  a  crash,  and  the  top 
most  boughs  bent  down  the  young  saplings  with  a  rushing  sweep, 
and  fell,  like  the  wings  of  a  great  bird  of  prey,  above  the  pros 
trate  Indian.  She  sprang  upward,  with  a  cry,  and  seizing  the 
stem  of  a  vine,  swung  herself  madly  over  the  precipice.  Fortu 
nately,  the  descent  was  rugged,  and  many  a  jutting  angle  af 
forded  a  foothold  to  the  daring  girl,  as  she  let  herself  fearlessly 
down — now  clinging  among  the  leaves  of  the  vine — now  grasping 
the  sharp  point  of  a  rock,  and  dropping  from  one  cleft  to  another. 
Twice  she  forced  herself  back,  as  if  she  would  have  sunk  into  the 
very  rock,  and  dragged  the  heavy  vines  over  her,  when  a  fresh 
thunder-burst  rolled  by,  or  a  flash  of  lightning  blazed  among  the 
leaves  ;  but  when  they  had  passed,  she  again  swung  herself 
downward,  and  finally  dropped  unharmed  upon  the  grass,  back 
of  her  father's  lodge. 

The  enclosure  was  now  perfectly  dark  ;  for  the  rain  had  ex 
tinguished  the  watch-fires  and  the  lightning  but  occasionally 
revealed  a  group  of  dark  forms  cowering  together,  awed  by  the 
violence  of  the  tempest,  and  rendered  abject  by  superstitious 
dread. 


THE     WOODLAND     LODGE.  55 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    "WOODLAND    LODGE. 

A  TWINKLING  light  broke  through  the  crevices  of  the  lodge  ;  but 
Tahmeroo  lingered  in  the  rain,  for  now  that  the  fierceness  of  the 
storm  was  over,  she  began  to  have  a  new  fear — the  dread  of  her 
mother's  stern  presence.  Cautiously,  and  with  timid  footsteps, 
she  advanced  to  the  entrance  and  lifted  the  huge  bear  skin  that 
covered  it.  She  breathed  freely  ;  for  there  was  no  one  present 
save  her  father,  the  great  Chief  of  the  Shawnees.  He  was 
sitting  on  the  ground,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  knees,  and  his 
swarthy  forehead  buried  in  his  robe  of  skins.  The  heart  of  the 
Indian  King  was  sorely  troubled,  for  he  knew  that  the  wing  of 
the  Great  Spirit  was  unfolded  in  its  wrath  above  his  people. 

Tahmeroo  crept  to  the  extremity  of  the  lodge  and  sat  down  in 
silence  upon  the  ground.  She  saw  that  preparations  had  been 
made  for  her  comfort.  A  pile  of  fresh  berries  and  a  cake  of 
cornbread  lay  on  a  stool  near  by,  and  a  couch  of  boughs  woven 
rudely  together  stood  in  the  corner,  heaped  with  the  richest  furs 
and  overspread  with  a  covering  of  martin  skins,  lined  and 
bordered  with  fine  scarlet  cloth.  A  chain  of  gorgeous  bead  work 
linked  the  deep  scallops  on  the  border,  and  heavy  tassels  fell 
upon  the  grass  from  the  four  corners.  The  savage  magnificence 
of  that  couch  was  well  worthy  the  daughter  of  a  great  chief. 

Another  couch,  but  of  less  costly  furs,  and  without  ornament, 
stood  at  the  opposite  extremity.  Tahmeroo  threw  one  timid 
look  towards  it,  then  bent  her  head,  satisfied  that  it  was 
untenanted,  and  that  her  mother  was  indeed  absent.  As  if 
suddenly  recollecting  herself,  she  half  started  from  the  ground, 
and  disentangled  the  string  of  coral  from  her  damp  hair.  With 
her  eyes  fixed  apprehensively  on  the  chief,  she  thrust  it  under 
the  fur  pillows  of  her  couch,  and  stole  back  to  her  former 
position. 


56  MARYDEKWENT. 

Tahmeroo  had  scarcely  seated  herself,  when  the  bear  skin  was 
flung  back  from  the  entrance  of  the  lodge,  and  Catharine  the  wife 
of  the  Shawnee  chief,  presented  herself  in  the  opening.  The 
light  from  a  heap  of  pine  knots  fell  on  the  woman's  face  as  she 
entered  ;  but  it  failed  to  reveal  the  maiden,  where  she  sat  in  the 
shadowy  side  of  the  lodge. 

The  chief  lifted  his  head  and  uttered  a  few  words  in  the 
Indian  tongue,  but  received  no  answer  ;  while  his  wife  gave  one 
quick  look  around  the  lodge,  then  sallied  back,  clasped  her 
hands  tightly  and  groaned  aloud. 

Tahmeroo  scarcely  breathed,  for  never  had  she  seen  her 
mother  so  agitated.  It  was,  indeed,  a  strange  sight — those 
small,  finely  cut  features,  usually  so  stern  and  cold,  working  with 
emotion — the  pallid  cheek,  the  high  forehead,  swollen  and  knit 
ted  at  the  brows — the  trembling  mouth — the  eyes  heavy  with 
anguish.  This  was  a  sight  which  Tahmeroo  had  never  witnessed 
before.  She  had  marked  the  dread  paleness  of  anger  settle  over 
that  face  till  it  became  hueless  as  a  corpse.  She  had  watched 
stern  resolve  and  savage  joy  gendered  in  those  eyes,  like  venom 
in  the  jaw  of  a  serpent  ;  but  never  before  had  she  seen  regret  or 
anguish  stir  those  beautiful  lineaments.  There  she  stood — a 
second  Niobe,  trembling  and  disordered  ;  her  robe  soiled,  and 
heavy  with  rain  ;  her  long  hair  falling  in  wet  and  knotted  masses 
to  her  waist, — moaning,  wringing  her  hands,  and  bewailing 
the  absence  of  her  child.  And  this  was  the  stern,  haughty 
woman — the  white  Indian — who  ruled  the  Shawnee  braves  with 
despotic  rigor — whose  revenge  was  deadly,  and  whose  hate 
was  a  terror.  This  was  Catharine  Montour  ! 

When  Tahmeroo  heard  her  name  mingled  with  the  lamenta 
tions  of  her  mother,  she  started  forward  exclaiming  with  tremu 
lous  and  broken  earnestness,  "  Mother,  oh,  mother,  I  am  here  1" 

A  burst  of  fierce  thanksgiving  broke  from  the  lips  of  Catha 
rine.  She  caught  her  daughter  to  her  heart  and  kissed  her 
wildly  again  and  again. 

"  Thank  God,  oh,  thank  my  God,  I  am  not  quite  alone  !"  she 


THE     WOODLAND     LODGE.  57 

exclaimed  ;  and  tears  started  in  the  eyes  that  had  not  known 
them  for  twenty  snmraers. 

Those  words  of  Christian  thankfulness — those  tears  of  maternal 
love — were  strange  sounds  for  the  lodge  of  a  savage  chief  ;  but 
stranger  far  were  they  to  the  lip  and  the  eye  of  that  stern, 
woman. 

Without  a  word  of  question  as  to  her  strange  absence, 
Catharine  drew  her  child  to  the  couch,  and,  seeing  the  bread 
and  the  berries  yet  untasted,  she  forced  her  to  eat  while  she 
wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair  and  took  away  the  damp  robe. 
She  smoothed  the  cushions  of  crimson  cloth  that  served  as  pillows, 
and  drawing  the  coverlet  of  martin  skins  over  the  form  of  her 
child,  sat  beside  her  till  she  dropped  to  a  gentle  slumber.  Then 
she  heaped  fresh  knots  on  the  burning  pine,  and  changed  her 
own  saturated  raiment. 

The  sombre  chief  threw  himself  upon  the  unoccupied  heap  of 
furs,  and  Catharine  was  left  alone  with  her  thoughts.  She  stole 
again  to  the  couch  of  her  daughter,  and  a  swann  of  good  and 
tender  feelings,  long  unknown  to  that  heart,  arose  at  the 
thoughts  of  her  child's  late  peril  and  of  her  present  safety.  She 
did  not,  as  was  her  wont,  force  back  these  gentle  feelings  to 
their  source,  but  permitted  them  to  flow  till  they  refreshed  the 
arid  places  of  her  heart,  like  dews  on  a  bed  of  withered  flowers. 

Thoughts  of  home  and  kindred,  and  of  her  innocent  childhood, 
thronged  upon  her  mind.  Remembrances  that  had  been  locked 
in  the  secret  cells  of  her  heart  for  years,  now  stole  forward,  with 
a  softening  influence,  till  the  present  was  lost  in  the  past,  and  she, 
the  Indian's  wife,  sat  in  her  husband's  wigwam,  lost  in  mournful 
thoughts  of  a  home  among  her  own  people,  and  of  hopes  whose 
uprooting  had  sent  her  to  the  wilderness,  seared  in  heart, 
and  hardened,  almost  beyond  the  feelings  of  her  sex  and 
race. 

Long  and  sad  were  the  vigils  of  that  stern  watcher  ;  yet  they 
had  a  good  influence  on  her  heart.  There  was  tenderness  and 
regret — nay,  almost  repentance — in  her  bosom,  as  she  gazed  on 


58  MARYDERWENT. 

the  slumbers  of  her  child — the  only  being  on  earth  whom  she 
dared  to  love.  More  than  once  she  pressed  her  lips  fondly  to 
the  forehead  of  the  sleeper,  as  if  to  assure  herself  of  her  dear 
presence  after  the  frightful  dangers  of  the  storm.  She  remained 
till  after  midnight  pondering  upon  past  events,  with  the  clinging 
tenacity  of  one  who  seldom  allowed  herself  to  dwell  on  aught 
that  could  soften  a  shade  of  her  haughty  character  ;  at  length 
she  was  about  to  throw  herself  by  the  side  of  her  daughter,  more 
from  the  workings  of  unquiet  thoughts  than  from  a  desire  for 
rest.  But  the  attempt  disturbed  the  slumbering  girl.  She 
turned  restlessly  on  her  couch,  and,  oppressed  by  its  warmth, 
pushed  away  the  covering,. 

Catharine  observed  that  the  cheek,  which  lay  against  the  scar 
let  cloth,  was  flushed  and  heated.  She  attempted  to  draw  the 
pillow  away,  when  her  fingers  became  entangled  in  the  string  of 
coral  concealed  beneath  it.  Had  a  serpent  coiled  around  her 
hand,  it  could  not  have  produced  a  more  startling  effect.  She 
shook  it  off,  and  drew  hastily  back,  as  if  something  loathsome 
had  clung  to  her.  Then  she  snatched  up  the  ornament,  went  to 
the  pile  of  smouldering  embers,  stirred  them  to  a  flame,  and  ex 
amined  it  minutely  by  the  light.  Her  face  settled  to  its  habitual 
expression  of  iron  resolution  as  she  arose  from  her  stooping  pos 
ture.  Her  lips  were  firmly  closed,  and  her  forehead  became 
calm  and  cold  ;  yet  there  was  more  of  doubt  and  sorrow  than 
of  anger  in  her  forced  composure. 

She  returned  to  the  couch  and  placed  herself  beside  it,  with 
the  coral  still  clenched  in  her  hand.  Her  face  continued  passion 
less,  but  her  eyes  grew  dim  as  she  gazed  on  the  sleeper  ;  thoughts 
of  her  own  youth  lay  heavily  upon  her  heart. 

Tahmeroo  again  turned  restlessly  on  her  pillow,  her  flushed 
cheeks  dimpled  with  a  smile,  and  she  murmured  softly  in  her 
sleep.  Catharine  laid  her  hand  on  the  round  arm,  flung  out  upon 
the  martin  skins,  and  bent  her  ear  close  to  the  red  and  smiling 
lips,  thus  betraying  with  their  gentle  whisperings  the  thoughts 
that  haunted  the  bosom  of  the  sleeper.  It  was  a  fearful  contrast, 


THE     WOODLAND     LODGE. 


59 


as  the  blaze  shone  on  those  two  faces — the  one  blooming  and 
beautiful,  smiling  amid  the  pleasant  dreams  of  a  young  heart ; 
the  other  moulded  with  a  symmetry  more  rare  and  intellectual, 
yet  stamped  with  the  iron  impress  of  stern  deeds  and  unhappy 
thoughts,  the  lineaments  rigid  and  fixed  as  marble,  yet  frozen 
to  composure  by  her  own  powers  of  self-command,  rather  than 
by  the  influence  of  time  or  of  nature. 

Again  Tahmeroo  dreamed  aloud.  A  name  was  whispered  in 
her  soft,  broken  English,  coupled  with  words  of  endearment  and 
gentle  chiding.  The  name  was  spoken  imperfectly,  and  Catharine 
bent  her  ear  still  lower,  as  if  in  doubt  that  she  had  heard  aright. 
Again  that  name  was  pronounced,  and  now  there  was  no  doubt ; 
the  enunciation  was  low,  but  perfectly  distinct.  The  mother 
started  upright  ;  her  face  was  ashy  pale,  and  she  looked  strangely 
corpse-like  in  the  dusky  light.  She  snatched  a  knife  from  its 
sheath  in  her  girdle,  and  bent  a  fierce  glance  on  the  sleeper.  A 
moment  the  blade  quivered  above  the  heart  of  her  only  child, 
then  the  wretched  woman  flung  it  from  her  with  a  gesture  of 
self-abhorrence,  and,  sinking  to  the  ground,  buried  her  face  in 
both  hands.  After  one  fierce  shudder,  she  remained  motionless 
as  a  statue. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  that  stern  face  was  lifted 
again  ;  shade  after  shade  of  deep  and  harrowing  agony  had 
swept  over  it  while  buried  in  the  folded  arms,  and  now  it  was 
very  pale,  but  with  a  gentler  expression  upon  it.  Traces  of 
anguish  and  deep  commiseration  were  there,  as  she  arose  and 
bent  over  her  daughter.  If  the  beautiful  doctrine  of  good  arid 
evil  spirits  hovering  about  the  heart,  each  striving  for  mastery, 
be  true,  Catharine  Montour's  bosom  was  the  seat  of  a  fierce 
spiritual  warfare  that  night !  Now  the  good,  and  then  the  evil 
predominated,  like  shifting  lights  and  shadows  thrown  athwart 
the  sky,  when  tempests  struggle  against  the  sunshine.  She  laid 
a  hand  on  the  rounded  shoulder,  from  which  the  covering  had 
been  flung,  passed  the  other  quickly  over  her  eyes,  and  awoke 
the  sleeper. 


60  MARTDEKWENT. 

"  Tahmeroo,"  she  said,  but  her  voice  was  low  and  husky,  and 
it  died  away  in  her  throat. 

The  maiden  started  to  her  elbow  and  looked  wildly  about. 
When  she  saw  her  mother  with  the  string  of  red  coral  in  her 
hand,  she  sunk  back  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

"  Tahmeroo,  look  up  1"  said  the  mother,  in  a  soft,  low  voice, 
from  which  all  traces  of  emotion  had  flown.  "  Has  Tahmeroo 
dreams  which  she  does  not  tell  her  mother  ?  The  white  man's 
gift  is  under  her  pillow — whence  came  it  ?" 

A  blush  spread  over  the  face,  neck,  and  bosom  of  the  young 
girl,  and  she  shrunk  from  the  steady  gaze  of  her  mother.  She 
was  sensible  of  no  wrong,  save  that  of  concealment ;  yet  her 
confusion  was  painful  as  guilt.  Catharine  had  compassion  on 
her  embarrassment,  and  turned  away  her  eyes. 

"  Tahmeroo,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  still  more  gentle  and  win 
ning,  "  tell  me  all — am  I  not  your  mother  ? — do  I  not  love 
you  ?" 

The  young  Indian  girl  rose  and  looked  timidly  towards  the 
couch  of  the  Shawnee  Chief. 

"  Does  my  father  sleep  ?"  and  her  eyes  again  fell  beneath  the 
powerful  glance  which  she  felt  to  be  fixed  upon  her. 

"  Yes,  he  sleeps  ;  speak  in  English,  and  have  no  fear." 

Catharine  went  to  the  heap  of  blazing  pine  and  flung  ashes  on 
it  ;  then  returned  to  her  daughter,  folded  her  to  her  bosom,  and 
for  half  an  hour  the  low  voice  of  Tahmeroo  alone  broke  the  still 
ness  of  the  lodge. 

Scarcely  had  Catharine  interrupted  the  confession  of  her  child 
with  a  word  of  question.  She  must  have  been  powerless  from 
emotion,  for  more  than  once  her  breath  came  quick  and  gasp 
ingly  ;  and  the  heavy  throbbing  of  her  heart  was  almost  audible 
at  every  pause  in  that  broken  narrative.  Yet  her  voice  was 
strangely  cold  and  calm  when  she  spoke. 

"  And  you  saw  him  again  this  day  ?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  to  keep  these  meetings  from  my  knowledge  ?" 


THE     WOODLAND     LODGE.  61 

"  He  said  the  Great  Spirit  would  visit  me  with  his  thunder,  if 
I  but  whispered  it  to  the  wind." 

u  The  name — tell  me  the  name  once  more  ;  but  low,  I  would 
not  hear  it  aloud.  Whisper  it  in  my  ear — yet  the  hiss  of  a  ser 
pent  were  sweeter,"  she  muttered  inly. 

Tahmeroo  raised  her  lips  to  her  mother's  ear,  and  whispered 
as  she  was  commanded.  She  felt  a  slight  shudder  creep  over 
the  frame  against  which  she  leaned,  and  all  was  still  again.  * 

"  You  first  saw  this — this  man,  when  we  were  at  the  encamp 
ment  on  the  banks  of  Seneca  Lake,  three  moons  since,  and  I  was 
absent  on  a  mission  to  Sir  William  Johnson  :  did  I  hear  aright 
in  this  ?"  questioned  the  mother  after  a  few  minutes  of  silence. 

"  It  was  there  I  first  saw  him,  mother." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Tahmeroo  :  were  I  to  command  you  never 
again  to  see  this  man,  could  you  obey  me  ?" 

The  young  Indian  started  from  her  mother's  arms,  and  the  fire 
of  her  dark  eyes  flashed  even  in  the  half  smothered  light. 

"  Never  see  him  ?  What,  tear  away  all  this  light  from  my 
own  heart  ?  Obey  ?  No,  mother,  no.  Put  me  out  from  my 
father's  lodge — make  me  a  squaw  of  burden,  the  lowest  woman 
of  our  tribe — give  me  to  the  tomahawk,  to  the  hot  fire — but  ask 
me  not  to  rend  the  life  from  my  bosom.  The  white  blood  which 
my  heart  drank  from  yours  must  curdle  that  of  the  Indian  when 
his  child  gives  or  takes  love  at  the  bidding  of  anything  but  her 
own  will  !  No,  mother,  I  could  not  obey — I  would  not." 

Catharine  Montour  was  struck  dumb  with  astonishment.  Was 
she,  the  despotic  ruler  of  a  fierce  war-tribe,  to  be  braved  by  her 
own  child  ?  The  creature  she  had  loved  and  cherished  with  an 
affection  so  deep  and  passionate — had  she  turned  rebellious  to 
her  power  ?  Her  haughty  spirit  aroused  itself  ;  the  gladiator 
broke  from  her  eyes,  as  they  were  bent  on  the  palpitating  and 
half-recumbent  form  of  Tahmeroo. 

The  girl  did  not  shrink  from  the  fierce  gaze,  but  met  it  with  a 
glance  of  resolute  daring.  The  young  eaglet  had  begun  to 
plume  its  wing  1  There  was  something  of  wild  dignity  in  her 


62  MARYDERWENT. 

voice  and  gesture,  which  assorted  well  with  the  curbless  strength 
of  her  mother's  spirit.  She  respected  the  strong  and  energetic 
mind,  even  when  it  rebelled  against  her  own  power.  Though 
stern  and  despotic  to  others,  her  anger  had  never  seriously  till 
now,  burst  on  the  head  of  her  daughter.  The  beautiful  and  wild 
creature  whom  she  had  reared  in  the  depths  of  the  wilderness, 
had  been  to  her  a  thing  set  apart,  not  for  the  fond  quiet  of  ma 
ternal  love,  but  for  the  idolatry  of  a  seared  and  erring  heart, 
which  turned  with  affection  to  nothing  on  earth  or  in  heaven, 
save  that  one  pure  girl.  Her  very  love  was  a  sin,  for  it  gave  to 
the  creature  a  worship  persistently  withheld  from  the  Creator. 

With  untiring  application  and  a  degree  of  patience  foreign  to 
her  character,  she  had  withdrawn  her  daughter  from  the  women 
of  her  tribe,  and  lavished  on  her  young  mind  all  that  had  ever 
been  bright  or  beautiful  in  her  own.  The  lore  and  pure  accents 
of  her  own  native  land,  were  made  familiar  to  the  lips  of  the 
young  Indian,  and  all  the  accomplishments  gathered  in  the 
favored  youth  of  the  mother,  were  transferred  to  the  child. 
Even  the  beautiful  doctrines  of  Christianity,  which  sometimes 
stole  upon  the  mother's  memory  like  the  whisperings  of  a  holy 
dream,  were  instilled  in  the  heart  of  the  child;  for  Catharine  had 
too  much  poetry  and  taste  mingled  with  her  stern  nature,  not  to 
admire  the  beauties  of  truth,  though  she  sacrilegiously  withheld 
reverence  from  them. 

Catharine  Moutour  loved  power,  but  that  which  she  possessed 
was  not  of  a  kind  to  satisfy  her  ambition  ;  for  into  this  passion 
had  many  others  merged  themselves.  She  understood  the  na 
ture  of  her  influence  over  the  tribe  of  her  husband  too  perfectly 
to  receive  pleasure  from  it.  It  was  not  that  of  a  great  spirit 
over  its  own  compeers,  but  of  the  intellectual  over  the  animal 
It  was  the  power  of  a  resolute  mind,  crafty  and  unhesitating  in 
its  means,  over  the  ignorance,  superstition,  and  brute  strength 
of  a  savage  and  almost  barbarous  race.  She  ruled  a  people 
with  whom  she  had  no  sympathy. 

But  the  dominion  which  she  held  over  her  daughter's  heart 


THE    MISSIONARY'S    CABIN.  63 

was  woven  with  all  the  gentle  and  better  feelings  left  to  her  na 
ture.  It  was  the  power  of  intellect  over  intellect — of  love  over 
a  loving  heart  ;  and  her  absolute  rule  over  that  one  soul  had 
been  to  her  a  sovereignty,  dear  alike  to  her  pride  and  to  her 
affections.  It  had  kept  one  well-spring  pure  in  the  depths  of  a 
wicked  heart. 

Catharine  Montour  had  studied  the  human  heart  as  a  familiar 
book,  and  she  knew  that  it  would  be  in  vain  to  contend  with 
the  spirit  so  suddenly  aroused  in  the  strength  of  its  womanhood. 
She  felt  that  her  power  over  that  heart  must  hereafter  be  one  of 
love  unmixed  with  fear — an  imperfect  and  a  divided  power.  The 
heart  of  the  strong  woman  writhed  uuder  the  conviction,  but  she 
stretched  herself  on  the  couch  without  a  word  of  expostulation. 
Her  own  fiery  spirit  had  sprung  to  rapid  growth  in  the  bosom 
of  her  child  ;  passions  akin  to  those  buried  in  her  experience, 
had  shot  up,  budded  and  blossomed,  in  a  night  time.  The  stern 
mother  trembled  when  she  thought  of  the  fruit  which,  in  her  own 
life,  had  turned  to  ashes  in  the  ripening. 

When  Tahmeroo  awoke  in  the  morning,  the  lodge  was  empty. 
Her  mother  had  left  the  encampment  at  early  dawn. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE   MISSIONARY'S   CABIN. 

THE  history  of  Wyoming  is  interwoven  with  that  of  the  Indian 
missionary  whose  paternal  care  had  so  long  protected  the  family 
on  Monokonok  Island.  Like  Zinzendorf,  his  life  was  one  errand 
of  mercy,  alike  to  the  heathen  and  the  believer.  For  years,  he  had 
served  as  a  link  of  union  between  the  savage  life  of  the  woods 
and  the  civilization  of  the  plains. 


64:  MARYDERWENT. 

While  a  comparatively  young  man,  he  had  come  among  the 
Six  Nations  nameless  and  unarmed,  with  his  life  in  his  hand, 
ready  to  live  or  die  at  his  post.  His  home  was  in  the  wilder 
ness  ;  sometimes  he  passed  through  the  white  settlements, 
preached  in  their  school-houses  and  slept  in  their  cabins  ;  but  it 
was  always  as  a  guest;  his  mission  lay  with  the  forest  children, 
and  in  the  wilds  where  they  dwelt  was  his  home. 

Almost  the  entire  portion  of  years  which,  had  elapsed  since 
his  encounter  with  Mary  Derwent  in  the  hills,  he  had  spent 
among  the  savages  that  kept  possession  of  broad  hunting 
grounds  beyond  the  Wind  Gap.  But  a  movement  of  the  tribes 
toward  Wyoming,  where  a  detachment  of  their  own  people  from 
about  Seneca  Lake  had  been  appointed  to  meet  them  in  council, 
filled  him  with  anxiety  for  his  friends  in  the  valley,  and  he  came 
back  also  to  watch  over  their  safety.  He  knew  what  the 
settlers  were  ignorant  of  as  yet,  that  the  Shawnees  were  about 
to  unite  with  the  Tories,  whose  leader  lay  at  Wiutermoot  fort, 
and  that  great  peril  threatened  the  inhabitants  of  Wyoming  in 
this  union. 

This  man  was  alone  in  a  log  cabin^Vhich  Zinzendorf  had 
once  occupied  on  a  curving  bank  of  the  Susquehanna  between 
Wilkesbarre  and  Monokonok  Island.  His  face,  always  sad  and 
merciful,  now  bore  an  anxious  expression.  The  patient  sweetness 
of  his  mouth  was  a  little  disturbed.  He  was  pondering  over  the 
hostile  attitude  threatened  by  the  Indians  against  the  whites, 
and  that  subject  could  not  be  otherwise  than  a  painful  one. 

His  dress  was  of  the  plainest  material,  yet  its  general  neat 
ness,  and  the  air  of  refinement  betrayed  in  every  point,  were 
sufficient  to  distinguish  him,  to  the  most  careless  observer,  as 
one  bred  to  a  station  far  different  to  the  character  he  had  chosen. 
The  hair  was  parted  from  his  forehead  after  a  peculiar  fashion, 
and  fell  loosely  to  his  shoulders,  giving  the  upper  portion  of  his 
face  an  air  of  meek  and  almost  feminine  softness.  It  had  once 
been  of  raven  darkness,  but  was  now  thickly  interspersed  with 
silver,  and  had  fallen  entirely  from  the  back  part  of  the  head. 


THE    MISSIONARY'S    CABIN.  65 

His  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a  man  of  chastened  and 
benevolent  spirit,  to  whom  a  child  or  a  wounded  bird  would 
instinctively  have  crept  for  protection.  Years  had  made  a 
great  difference  in  his  person. 

The  hut  was  small,  and  but  for  recent  repairs  would  have  been 
in  ruins.  It  consisted  only  of  one  room.  A  deal  box  stood  in 
one  corner,  filled  with  books  and  rolls  of  manuscript.  Two 
stools  and  a  rude  table,  with  a  few  cooking  utensils,  were  the 
only  remaining  furniture.  The  missionary  sat  by  the  table,  im 
plements  for  writing  were  before  him,  and  the  pages  of  a 
worn  Bible  lay  open,  which,  after  a  little  while,  he  began  to 
read. 

The  morning  was  yet  young,  and  the  fresh  air  came  balmily 
to  his  temples  as  he  read.  The  forest  trees,  which  interwove 
their  branches  like  an  arbor  over  the  hut,  were  vocal  with  bird- 
songs,  and  the  murmur  of  a  mountain  cascade  came  softly 
through  the  unglazed  window. 

The  missionary  occasionally  lifted  his  head  and  looked  out 
with  a  faint  smile,  when  a  bird  came  flitting  by  the  door,  or 
shook  the  dew  from  the  green  boughs  waving  against  the  win 
dow.  Then  he  would  smooth  back  the  pages  which  the  breeze 
playfully  lifted  whenever  he  removed  his  hand,  and  again  became 
absorbed  in  his  book. 

It  was  a  picture  of  holy  thought  and  quiet  study  ;  but  the 
crackling  of  branches,  and  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps 
interrupted  its  beautiful  tranquillity. 

The  silvery  flow  of  water  from  a  spring  close  by  was  broken 
by  the  sound  ;  the  birds  fluttered  away  from  their  green  nestling 
places  in  the  leaves,  and  a  half-tamed  fawn,  which  had  been 
sleeping  in  a  tuft  of  fern  leaves,  started  up,  gazed  a  moment  on 
the  intruder  with  his  dark,  intelligent  eye,  and  dashed  up  the 
river's  bank,  as  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  lowly  dwelling. 

The  missionary  looked  up  as  the  stranger  entered,  and  a  feel 
ing  of  astonishment  mingled  with  the  graciousness  which,  long 
habit  had  made  a  portion  of  his  nature.  He  arose,  and  with  a 

5 


66  MARYDEKWENT. 

slight  inclination  of  the  head,  placed  the  stool,  on  which  he  had 
been  sitting,  for  her  accommodation. 

The  intruder  bent  her  head  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
courtesy,  but  remained  standing.  She  was  a  woman  majestic  in 
her  bearing,  of  well  developed  form,  and  somewhat  above  the 
middle  height ;  her  air  was  courtly  and  graceful,  but  dashed 
with  haughtiness  approaching  to  arrogance.  She  had  probably 
numbered  forty  years  ;  her  face,  though  slightly  sun-browned, 
bore  traces  of  great  beauty,  spite  of  its  haughty  expression. 
The  mouth  had  been  accustomed  to  smiles  in  its  youth,  and 
though  an  anxious  frown  clouded  the  broad  forehead,  it  was  still 
beautifully  fair.  The  missionary  had  spent  his  life  amid  the 
aristocracy  of  European  courts,  and  had  passed  from  thence  to 
the  lowly  settlement,  and  to  the  still  more  remote  Indian 
encampment  ;  but  there  was  something  in  the  appearance 
of  this  strange  woman  that  filled  him  with  vague  uneasiness, 
and  he  looked  upon  her  with  a  sort  of  terror.  Her  air  and 
dress  were  not  strictly  those  of  any  class  with  which  he  had  as 
yet  become  familar.  There  was  wildness  mingled  with  the 
majesty  of  her  presence,  and  her  rich  and  picturesque  attire  par 
took  at  once  of  the  court  and  the  wigwam. 

Her  long,  golden,  and  still  abundant  hair,  was  wreathed  in 
braids  around  her  head,  and  surmounted  by  a  small  coronet  of 
gorgeous  feathers.  A  serpent  of  fine,  scaly  gold,  the  neck  and 
back  striped  and  variegated  with  minute  gems,  was  wreathed 
about  the  mass  of  braids  on  one  side  of  her  head,  and  formed  a 
knot  of  slender  coils  where  it  clasped  the  coronet.  There  was 
something  startlingly  like  vitality  in  these  writhing  folds  when 
the  light  struck  them,  and  the  jewelled  head  shot  out  from  the 
feathers  and  quivered  over  the  pale  temple  with  startling  abrupt 
ness.  There  was  an  asp-like  glitter  in  the  sharp,  emerald  eye, 
and  the  tiny  jaw  seemed  full  of  subtle  venom.  It  was  a  magnifi 
cent  and  rare  ornament  to  be  found  in  the  solitude  of  an  Ameri 
can  forest  ;  yet  scarcely  less  remarkable  than  the  remainder  of 
the  strange  woman's  apparel. 


THE    MISSIONARY'S    CABIN  67 

A  robe  of  scarlet  cloth,  bordered  with  the  blackest  lynx  fur, 
was  girded  at  the  waist  by  a  cord  of  twisted  silk,  and  fell  back 
at  the  shoulders  in  lappels  of  rich  black  velvet.  Above  the  fur 
border,  ran  a  wreath  of  embroidery,  partly  silk,  partly  wampum, 
but  most  exquisitely  wrought  in  garlands  of  mountain  flowers, 
with  tiny  golden  serpents  knotting  them  together  and  creeping 
downward,  as  it  were,  to  hide  themselves  in  the  fur.  It  had 
loose,  hanging  sleeves,  likewise  lined  with  velvet,  beneath 
which  the  white  and  still  rounded  arm  gleamed  out  in  strong 
contrast. 

A  serpent,  mate  to  the  one  on  her  head,  but  glowing  with 
still  more  costly  jewels,  coiled  around  the  graceful  swell  of  her 
right  arm,  a  little  below  the  elbow,  but  its  brilliancy  was  con 
cealed  by  the  drapery  of  the  sleeve,  except  when  the  arm  was  in 
motion.  She  wore  elaborately  wrought  moccasins,  lined  with 
crimson  cloth,  but  the  embroidery  was  soiled  with  dew,  and  the 
silken  thongs,  with  which  they  had  been  laced  to  the  ankle,  had 
broken  loose  in  the  rough  path  through  which  she  had  evidently 
travelled. 

The  missionary  stood  by  the  table,  while  his  visitor  cast  a 
hasty  glance  around  the  apartment,  and  turned  her  eyes  keenly 
on  his  face. 

"  I  am  not  mistaken,"  she  said,  slowly  withdrawing  her  gaze. 
"  You  are  the  godly  man  of  whom  our  people  speak — the  Indian 
missionary  ?" 

The  man  of  God  bent  his  head  in  reply. 

"  You  should  be,  and  I  suppose  are,  an  ordained  minister  of 
the  church  ?"  she  resumed. 

"  I  am,  madam." 

His  voice  was  deep-toned  and  peculiarly  sweet.  The  woman 
started  as  it  met  her  ear  ;  a  gleam  of  unwonted  expression  shot 
over  her  features,  and  she  fixed  another  penetrating  glance  on 
his  face,  as  if  some  long  buried  recollection  had  been  aroused  ; 
then,  satisfied  with  the  scrutiny,  she  turned  her  eyes  away,  and 
drawing  a  deep  breath,  spoke  again. 


68  MARYDEKWENT. 

"  I  ask  no  more  than  this  ;  of  what  church  matters  little.  But 
have  you  authority  to  perform  marriages  after  the  established 
law  ?" 

"  I  have  ;  but  my  services  are  seldom  required.  I  mingle  but 
little  with  the  whites  of  the  settlement,  and  Indians  have  their 
peculiar  forms,  which,  to  them,  are  alone  binding." 

"  True,"  replied  the  woman,  with  a  slight  wave  of  the  hand  ; 
"  these  forms  shall  not  be  wanting  ;  all  the  bonds  of  a  Christian 
church  and  savage  custom  will  scarcely  yield  me  security." 

She  spoke  as  if  unconscious  of  a  second  presence,  and  again 
abruptly  addressed  the  missionary. 

"  Your  services  are  needed  in  the  Shawnee  encampment,  a  few 
miles  back  in  the  mountains.  A  guide  shall  be  sent  for  you  at 
the  appointed  time.  Stay  in  this  place  during  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours,  when  you  will  be  summoned." 

The  missionary,  though  a  humble  man,  was  by  no  means 
wanting  in  the  dignity  of  a  Christian  gentleman.  He  was  dis 
pleased  with  the  arrogant  and  commanding  tone  assumed  by  his 
singular  visitor,  and  threw  a  slight  degree  of  reproof  into  his 
manner  when  he  answered. 

"  Lady,  if  the  welfare  of  a  human  being — if  the  safety  of  an 
immortal  soul,  can  be  secured  by  my  presence,  I  will  not  hesitate 
to  trust  myself  among  your  people,  though  they  come  here  on  an 
errand  I  can  never  approve  ;  but  for  a  less  important  matter,  I 
cannot  promise  to  wait  your  pleasure." 

"  Rash  man,  do  you  know  who  it  is  you  are  braving  ?"  said 
the  woman,  fixing  her  eyes  sternly  on  his  face.  "  If  your  life  is 
utterly  valueless,  delay  but  a  moment  in  following  the  guide 
which  I  shall  send,  and  you  shall  have  the  martyrdom  you  seem 
to  brave  !  Catharine  Montour's  will  has  never  yet  been  disputed 
within  twenty  miles  of  her  husband's  tent  without  frightful  retri 
bution." 

The  missionary  started  at  the  mention  of  that  name,  but  he 
speedily  regained  his  composure,  and  answered  her  calmly  and 
with  firmness. 


THE    MISSIONARY'S    CABIN.  69 

"  Threats  are  powerless  with  me,  lady.  The  man  who  places 
himself  unarmed  and  defenceless  in  the  midst  of  a  hoard  of  sava 
ges,  can  scarcely  be  supposed  to  act  against  his  conscience  from 
the  threat  of  a  woman,  however  stern  may  be  her  heart,  and 
however  fearful  her  power.  Tell  me  what  the  service  is  which 
I  am  required  to  perform,  and  then  you  shall  have  my  answer." 

The  haughty  woman  moved  towards  the  door  with  an  angry 
gesture,  but  returned  again,  and  with  more  courtesy  in  her 
manner  seated  herself  on  the  stool  which  had  been  placed  for 
her. 

"  It  is  but  just,"  she  said,  "  that  you  should  know  the  service 
which  you  are  required  to  perform.  There  is  in  the  camp  now 
lying  beneath  Campbell's  Ledge,  a  maiden  of  mixed  blood,  my 
child — my  only  child  ;  from  the  day  that  she  first  opened  her 
eyes  to  mine  in  the  solemn  wilderness,  with  nothing  but  savage 
faces  around  me,  with  no  heart  to  sympathize  with  mine,  that 
child  became  a  part  of  my  own  life.  For  years  I  had  loved 
nothing  ;  but  the  tenderness  almost  dead  in  my  heart  broke 
forth  when  she  was  born,  the  sweet  feelings  of  humanity  came 
back,  and  the  infant  became  to  me  an  idol.  In  the  wide  world  I 
had  but  one  object  to  love,  and  for  the  first  time  in  a  weary 
life,  affection  brought  happiness  to  me.  You  may  be  a  father  ; 
think  of  the  child  who  has  lain  in  your  bosom,  year  after  year, 
pure  and  gentle  as  a  spring  blossom,  who  has  wound  herself 
around  your  heart-strings — think  of  her,  when  dearest  and  love 
liest,  stolen  from  your  bosom,  and  her  innocent  thoughts  usurped 
by  another." 

"  Forbear — in  mercy  forbear  !"  said  the  missionary,  in  a  voice 
of  agony,  that  for  an  instant  silenced  the  woman. 

Catharine  looked  up  and  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears  ; 
her  own  face  was  fearfully  agitated,  and  she  went  on  with  a 
degree  of  energy  but  little  in  keeping  with  the  pathos  of  her  last 
broken  speech. 

"  A  white,  one  of  my  own  race,  came  to  the  forest  stealthily, 
like  a  thief,  and  with  our  Indian  forms,  which  he  taught  her  to 


TO  MARYDERWENT. 

believe  were  a  bond  of  marriage  among  his  people,  also  lured  the 
heart  of  my  child  from  her  mother.  Now,  I  beseech  you,  for  I 
see  that  you  are  kind  and  feeling — I  was  wrong  to  command — 
come  to  the  camp  at  nine  to-night,  for  then  and  there  shall  my 
child  be  lawfully  wedded." 

"  I  will  be  there  at  the  hour,''  replied  the  missionary,  in  a, 
voice  of  deep  sympathy.  "  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  refuse 
to  aid  in  righting  the  wronged,  even  at  the  peril  of  life." 

"  My  own  head  shall  not  be  more  sacred  in  the  Shawnee  camp 
than  yours,"  said  Catharine,  with  energy. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it  ;  and  were  it  otherwise,  I  should  not 
shrink  from  a  duty.  I  owe  an  atonement  for  the  evil  opinion  I 
had  of  you.  A  heart  which  feels  dishonor  so  keenly  cannot  de 
light  in  carnage  and  blood." 

"  Can  they  repeat  these  things  of  me  ?"  inquired  Catharine, 
with  a  painful  smile  ;  "  they  do  me  deep  wrong.  Fear  not  ;  I 
appear  before  you  with  clean  hands.  If  the  heart  is  less  pure,  it 
has  sufficiently  avenged  itself ;  if  it  has  wronged  others,  they 
have  retribution  ;  has  not  the  love  of  my  child  gone  forth  to 
another  ?  Am  I  not  alone  ?"  - 

"  Lady,"  said  the  missionary,  with  deep  commiseration  in  his 
look  and  voice,  for  he  was  moved  by  her  energetic  grief,  "  this 
is  not  the  language  of  a  savage.  Your  speech  is  refined,  your 
manner  noble.  Lady,  what  are  you  ?" 

There  are  seasons  when  the  heart  will  claim  sympathy,  spite  of 
all  control  which  a  will  of  iron  may  place  upon  it.  This  power 
was  upon  the  heart  of  Catharine  Montour. 

"  Yes,  I  will  speak,"  she  muttered,  raising  her  hand  and  press 
ing  it  heavily  to  her  eyes.  The  motion  flung  back  the  drapery 
of  the  sleeve,  and  the  light  flashed  full  on  the  jewelled  serpent 
coiled  around  her  arm.  The  missionary's  eyes  fell  upon  it,  and 
he  sallied  back  against  the  logs  of  the  hut,  with  a  death-like 
agony  in  his  face. 


CATHARINE'S    CONFESSION.  71 

CHAPTER  XL 

CATHARINE'S    CONFESSION. 

CATHARINE  MONTOUR  was  too  deeply  engrossed  by  her  own 
feelings  to  observe  the  strange  agitation  which  had  so  suddenly 
come  upon  the  missionary.  She  seated  herself  on  the  stool,  and, 
with  her  face  buried  in  her  robe,  remained  minute  after  minute 
in  deep  silence,  gathering  strength  to  unlock  the  tumultuous 
secrets  of  her  heart  once  more  to  a  mortal's  knowledge. 

When  she  raised  her  face,  there  was  nothing  in  the  appearance 
of  her  auditor  to  excite  attention.  He  still  leaned  against  the 
rude  wall,  a  little  paler  than  before,  but  otherwise  betraying  no 
emotion,  save  that  which  a  good  man  might  be  supposed  to  feel 
in  the  presence  of  a  sinful  and  highly  gifted  fellow-creature. 

She  caught  his  pitying  and  mournful  look,  fixed  so  earnestly 
upon  her  face,  as  she  raised  it  from  the  folds  of  her  robe,  and 
her  eyes  wavered  and  sunk  beneath  its  sorrowful  intensity. 
There  was  a  yearning  sympathy  in  his  glance,  which  fell  upon 
her  heart  like  sunshine  on  the  icy  fetters  of  a  rivulet  ;  it  awed 
her  proud  spirit,  and  yet  encouraged  confidence  ;  but  it  was  not 
till  after  his  mild  voice  had  repeated  the  question — "  Lady,  con 
fide  in  me — who  and  what  you  are  ?"  that  she  spoke. 

When  she  did  find  voice,  it  was  sharp,  and  thrilled  painfully 
on  the  ear  of  the  listener.  The  question  aroused  a  thousand 
recollections,  that  had  long  slumbered,  in  the  life  of  this  wretched 
woman.  She  writhed  under  it,  as  if  a  knot  of  scorpions  had 
suddenly  began  to  uncoil  in  her  heart. 

"  What  am  I  ?  It  is  a  useless  question.  Who  on  earth  can 
tell  what  he  is,  or  what  a  moment  shall  make  him  ?  I  am  that 
which  fate  has  ordained  for  me,  Catharine  Montour,  the  wife  of 
Gi-en-gwa-tah,  a  great  chief  among  his  people.  If  at  any  time  I 
have  known  another  character,  it  matters  little.  Why  should 


2  MAKYDEBWENT. 

you  arouse  remembrances  which  may  not  be  forced  back  to  their 
lethargy  again  ?  I  ask  uo  sympathy,  nor  seek  counsel  ;  let  me 
depart  in  peace  ?" 

With  a  sorrowful  and  deliberate  motion,  she  arose,  and  would 
have  left  the  cabin,  but  the  missionary  laid  his  hand  gently  on 
her  arm  and  drew  her  back. 

"  We  cannot  part  thus,"  he  said.  "  The  sinful  have  need  of 
counsel,  the  sorrowing  of  sympathy.  The  heart  which  has  been 
long  astray  requires  an  intercessor  with  the  Most  High.'7 

"  And  does  the  God  whom  you  serve  suffer  any  human  heart 
to  become  so  depraved  that  it  may  not  approach  his  footstool  in 
its  own  behalf  ?  Is  the  immaculate  purity  of  Jehovah  endangered 
by  the  petition  of  the  sinful  or  the  penitent,  that  you  offer  to 
mediate  between  me  and  my  Creator  ?  No  I  if  I  have  sinned, 
the  penalty  has  been  dearly  paid.  If  I  have  sorrowed,  the  tears 
shed  in  solitude  have  fallen  back  on  my  own  heart,  and  frozen 
there  !  I  ask  no  intercession  with  the  being  you  worship  ;  and  I 
myself  lack  the  faith  which  might  avail  me,  were  I  weak  enough 
to  repine  over  the  irredeemable  past.  I  have  no  hope,  no  God 
— wherefore  should  I  pray  ?" 

"  This  hardiness  and  impiety  is  unreal.  There  is  a  God,  and, 
despite  of  your  haughty  will  and  daring  intellect,  you  believe  in 
him  ;  ay,  at  this  moment,  when  there  is  denial  on  your  lips  1" 

"Believe — ay,  as  the  devils,  perchance  ;  but  I  do  not  trem 
ble  1"  replied  the  daring  woman,  with  an  air  and  voice  of  de 
fiance. 

The  missionary  fixed  his  eyes  with  stern  and  reproving  steadi 
ness  on  the  impious  woman.  She  did  not  shrink  from  his  glance, 
but  stood  up,  her  eyes  braving  his  with  a  forced  determination, 
her  brow  locked  in  defiance  beneath  its  gorgeous  coronet,  and  a 
smile  of  scornful  bitterness  writhing  her  mouth.  Her  arms  were 
folded  over  her  bosom,  flushed  by  the  reflection  of  her  robe,  and 
the  jewelled  serpent  glittered  just  over  her  heart,  as  if  to  guard' 
it  from  all  good  influences.  She  seemed  like  a  beautiful  and 
rebellious  spirit  thrust  out  forever  from  the  sanctuary  of  heaven 


CATHARINE'S    CONFESSION.  73 

A  man  less  deeply  read  in  the  human  heart,  or  less  persever 
ing  in  his  Christian  charities,  would  have  turned  away  and  left 
her,  as  one  utterly  irreclaimable,  but  the  missionary  was  both 
too  wise  and  too  good  thus  to  relinquish  the  influence  he  had 
gained.  There  was  something  artificial  in  the  daring  front  and 
reckless  impiety  of  the  being  before  him,  which  betrayed  a 
strange,  but  not  uncommon,  desire  to  be  supposed  worse  than 
she  really  was. 

With  the  ready  tact  of  a  man  who  had  made  character  a 
study,  he  saw  that  words  of  reproof  or  authority  were  unlikely 
to  soften  a  heart  so  stern  in  its  mental  pride,  arid  his  own  kind 
feelings  taught  him  the  method  of  reaching  hers.  This  keen 
desire  to  learn  something  of  her  secret  history  would  have  been 
surprising  in  a  man  of  less  comprehensive  benevolence,  and  even 
in  him  there  was  a  restless  anxiety  of  manner  but  little  in  accord 
ance  with  his  usual  quiet  demeanor.  His  voice  was  like  the 
breaking  up  of  a  fountain  when  he  spoke  again. 

"  Catharine,"  he  said. 

She  started  at  the  name — her  arms  dropped — she  looked 
wildly  in  his  eyes  : 

"  Oh,  I  mentioned  the  name,"  she  muttered,  refolding  her  arms 
and  drawing  a  deep  breath. 

"  Catharine  Montour,  this  hardihood  is  unreal  ;  you  are  not 
thus  unbelieving.  Has  the  sweet  trustfulness  of  your  childhood 
departed  forever  ?  Have  you  no  thought  of  those  hours  when 
the  young  heart  is  made  up  of  faith  and  dependence — when 
prayer  and  helpless  love  break  out  from  the  soul,  naturally  as 
moisture  exhales  when  the  sun  touches  it  ?  Nay,"  he  continued, 
with  more  powerful  earnestness,  as  he  saw  her  eyes  waver  and 
grow  dim  beneath  the  influence  of  his  voice,  "  resist  not  the  good 
spirit,  which  even  now  is  hovering  about  your  heart,  as  the  ring 
dove  broods  over  its  desolated  nest.  Hoarded  thoughts  of  evil 
beget  evil.  Open  your  heart  to  confidence  and  counsel.  Confide 
in  one  who  never  yet  betrayed  trust — one  who  is  no  stranger  to 
sorrow,  and  who  is  too  frail  himself  to  lack  charity  for  the  sin? 


:  MAKYDERWENT. 

of  others.  I  beseech  you  tell  me,  are  you  not  of  English 
birth  r 

Tears,  large  and  mournful  tears,  stood  in  Catharine  Montour's 
eyes.  She  was  once  more  subdued  and  humble  as  an  infant.  A 
golden  chord  had  been  touched  in  her  memory,  and  every  heart, 
string  vibrated  to  the  music  of  other  years.  Thoughts  of  her 
childhood,  so  innocent  and  isolated,  of  the  time  when  her  heart 
was  full  of  affection  and  kindness,  when  hopes  were  springing  up 
and  blossoming  with  each  new  day,  when  the  whole  earth  was 
pleasant  and  beautiful  to  her  young  mind — all  the  recollections 
of  her  youth  came  thronging  to  her  bosom,  like  a  host  of  gentle 
spirits  to  their  desolated  haunts. 

She  sat  down  and  opened  her  history  to  that  strange  man 
abruptly,  and  as  one  under  the  influence  of  a  dream.  The  large 
tears  rolled  one  after  another  down  her  cheeks,  and  fell  to  her 
robe  as  she  spoke  ;  but  she  appeared  unconscious  that  she  was 
weeping,  and  sat  with  her  hands  locked  in  her  lap,  and  her  face 
raised  to  that  of  the  missionary,  with  the  humility  of  a  penitent 
child  confessing  its  faults  to  some  indulgent  parent. 

It  was  a  beautiful  contrast  with  her  late  bold  and  unfeminine 
assumption  of  superiority.  Her  voice  was  broken  and  changeful 
as  she  spoke,  now  sinking  to  the  deepest  pathos,  and  again  ris 
ing  in  passionate  appeal,  or  concentrating  in  accents  of  bitterness 
and  reproach,  sometimes  applied  to  herself,  and  at  others  to 
persons  who  had  been  linked  with  her  remarkable  destiny. 

"  Yes,  I  was  born  in  England,"  she  said  ;  "  born  in  a  place  so 
beautiful  that  any  human  being  might  be  happy  from  the  mere 
influence  of  its  verdant  and  tranquil  quietness.  I  have  stood  in 
the  heart  of  an  American  forest,  where  civilized  foot  had  never 
trod,  surrounded  by  the  solemn  gloom  of  the  wilderness,  and 
overshadowed  by  massive  branches,  which  had  been  outspread 
centuries  and  centuries  before  my  insignificant  existence.  I  have 
felt  the  blood  creep  through  my  veins  when  standing  thus  alone, 
encompassed  by  the  stirless  solitude  of  nature.  When  a  deer 
has  bounded  through  the  thickets,  or  a  serpent  glided  across  my 


CATHARINE'S     CONFESSION.  75 

path,  breaking  with  a  sound  of  life  the  deep  hush  of  the  forest, 
I  have  started  with  a  feeling  of  awe,  as  if  I  were  treading,  un 
authorized,  upon  the  confines  of  a  darker  world. 

"  There  is,  indeed,  something  awful  in  the  majestic  scenery  of 
this  new  world  ;  I  have  seen  all  that  is  savage  and  grand  in  it — 
all  that  is  rich  and  beautiful  in  my  own  land  ;  but  never  yet 
have  I  known  a  spot  so  quiet  and  lovely  as  my  own  birth-place. 

"  No  traveller  ever  passed  through  that  village  without  stopping 
to  admire  its  verdant  and  secluded  tranquillity.  There  was 
something  picturesque  and  holy  in  the  little  stone  church,  with 
its  porch  overrun  with  ivy,  and  its  narrow  gothic  windows  half 
obscured  by  the  soft  moss  and  creeping  foliage  which  had  gathered 
about  them  from  age  to  age — something  that  subdued  the  gayest 
heart  in  the  deathly  stillness  of  the  grave-yard,  with  its  stones 
slanting  away  among  the  rank  grass  beneath  the  dark  solemn 
shadows  of  the  yew  trees.  Artists  came  from  a  distance  to  sketch 
that  church  ;  and  never  did  there  pass  a  summer  day  in  which 
that  grave-yard  was  not  haunted  by  some  stranger,  detained  in 
the  village  by  its  exceeding  loveliness. 

"Back  from  the  church  stood  the  parsonage,  an  irregular  old 
building,  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  magnificent  oaks,  through 
which  its  pointed  roof  and  tall  chimnies  alone  could  be  seen  from 
the  village.  Around  the  narrow  lattices,  and  up  to  the  pointed 
gables,  a  rich,  viny  foliage  had  been  allowed  to  blossom  and 
luxuriate  year  after  year,  unpruned  and  abandoned  to  its  own 
profuse  leafiuess,  till  only  here  and  there  a  sharp  angle  or  a  rude 
stone  balcony  broke  out  from  the  masses  of  leaves  and  flowers 
that  clung  around  the  old  building,  wherever  a  tendril  could  en- 
weave  itself  or  a  bud  find  room  for  blossoming. 

"  A  tribe  of  rooks  dwelt  in  the  oaks,  and  a  whole  bevy  of  wrens 
came  and  built  their  nests  in  the  vines.  With  my  earliest  recol 
lection  comes  the  soft  chirp  of  the  nestlings  under  my  win 
dow,  and  the  carrolling  song  which  broke  up  from  the  larks 
when  they  left  the  long  grass  in  the  grave-yard,  where  they 
nested  during  the  summer  nights.  I  remember  one  little  timid 


76  MAKYDEKWENT. 

hare  which  haunted  the  violet  banks,  that  sloped  down  from  be 
hind  the  grove,  from  season  to  season,  unmolested  and  in  safety, 
so  harmless  and  quiet  was  everything  around  that  dwelling  :  and 
yet  that  was  my  birth-place. 

"  My  father  was  rector  of  the  parish,  the  younger  son  of  a 
noble  family.  He  had  a  small  independent  fortune,  which 
allowed  him  to  distribute  the  income  from  his  living  among  the 
poor  of  the  village.  He  was  a  man  of  simple  habits,  quiet  and 
unostentatious  in  his  benevolence,  dwelling  among  his  books, 
with  his  wife  and  child,  without  a  thought  of  ambition,  or  a  de 
sire  beyond  his  own  pleasant  hearth-stone.  He  was  a  fine 
scholar,  deeply  read  in  ancient  lore,  and  familiar  with  every 
branch  of  modern  belles-letters.  From  the  resources  of  his  own 
mind  he  delighted  in  cultivating  mine  ;  but  he  was  too  mild  and 
contemplative  in  his  nature  to  hold  sufficient  restraint  over  a  will 
so  resolute  and  feelings  so  ardent.  Indeed,  he  could  hardly  com 
prehend  a  nature  every  way  at  variance  with  his  own,  much  less 
control  it  ;  for  long  before  it  obtained  a  full  development  he  was 
with  the  angels. 

"  My  mother  was  a  gentle  creature,  of  refined  and  delicate, 
but  not  comprehensive  mind.  She  loved  my  father,  and  next 
to  him,  or  rather  as  a  portion  of  himself,  me,  her  only  child. 
Years  passed  on,  and  I  grew  in  culture  and  beauty.  I  remem 
ber  my  own  looks  as  reflected  in  the  mirror,  when  my  mother 
caressed  me  in  her  little  boudoir  ;  I  was  indeed  very  beautiful, 
but  it  was  the  wild  and  graceful  loveliness  of  a  spoiled  child, 
petted  and  caressed  as  an  idol,  or  a  spirited  plaything,  rather 
than  that  of  a  being  endowed,  as  my  father  believed  me  to  be, 
with  an  imperishable  soul. 

"  As  a  child,  I  was  passionate  and  wayward,  but  warm  of 
heart,  forgiving  and  generous.  My  spirit  brooked  no  control  ; 
but  my  indulgent  father  and  sweet  mother  could  see  nothing  more 
dangerous  than  a  quick  intellect  and  over-abundant  healthfulness 
in  the  capricious  tyranny  of  my  disposition.  Though  even  as  a 
child,  I  had  strong  feelings  of  dislike  towards  some  distasteful 


MY    FATHER'S    WAKD.  77 

individuals  ;  my  nature  was  very  affectionate,  and  I  loved  every 
thing  appertaining  to  my  home  with  a  fervor  seldom  experienced 
at  my  early  years.  The  wealth  of  my  affections  seemed  inex 
haustible.  It  was  lavished  without  stint  on  everything  about 
me,  from  the  parents  who  took  me  nightly  to  their  bosoms  with 
kisses  and  blessings,  to  the  flowers  that  clung  around  my  nursery 
window,  and  the  sweet  birds  that  haunted  them  with  melody. 

"  I  was  passionately  fond  of  my  mother,  and  when  she  sometimes 
stole  to  my  bed-side  and  hushed  me  to  sleep  with  her  soft  kisses 
and  pleasant  voice,  I  would  promise  in  my  innermost  heart  never 
to  grieve  her  again  ;  yet  the  next  day  I  experienced  a  kind  of 
pleasure  in  bringing  the  tears  to  her  gentle  eyes,  by  some  way 
ward  expression  of  obstinacy  or  dislike. 

"  It  is  strange  that  we  often  take  pleasure  in  teasing  and  tor 
menting  those  whom  we  most  love.  There  is  a  feeling  of  selfish 
power  in  it  by  no  means  confined  to  the  thoughtlessness  of  child 
hood,  and  often  acted  upon  by  those  who  would  despise  the  feel 
ing  could  they  trace  it  to  its  unworthy  source.  At  ten  years  of 
age  I  was  absolute  in  my  father's  house,  and  tyrannized  over  the 
hearts  of  both  my  parents  with  an  innate  thirst  for  ascendency  ; 
yet  I  loved  them  very,  very  dearly  I 


CHAPTER  XII. 
MY    FATHER'S   WARD. 


"  WHEN  I  was  fifteen,  an  old  collage  associate  died  and  left  my 
father  guardian  to  his  son  and  heir.  This  young  gentleman's 
arrival  at  the  parsonage  was  an  epoch  in  my  life.  A  timid  and 
feminine  anxiety  to  please  took  possession  of  my  heart.  I  gave 
up  for  his  use  my  own  little  sitting-room,  opening  upon  a  wilder 
ness  cf  roses  and  tangled  honeysuckles  that  had  once  been  a  gar 
den,  but  which  I  had  delighted  to  see  run  wild  in  unchecked 


T8  MARYDERWENT. 

luxuriance,  till  it  had  become  as  fragrant  and  rife  with  blossoms 
as  an  East  India  jungle. 

"  It  was  the  first  act  of  self-denial  I  had  ever  submitted  to,  and 
I  found  a  pleasure  in  it  which  more  than  compensated  for  the 
pain  I  felt  in  removing  my  music  and  books,  with  the  easel  which 
I  had  taken  such  pains  to  place  in  its  proper  light,  to  a  small 
chamber  above. 

"  It  was  not  in  my  nature  to  do  things  by  halves.  With  ray 
favourite  room  I  resigned  to  our  expected  guest  all  the  orna 
ments  that  had  become  most  endeared  to  me.  The  drawings,  over 
which  I  had  lingered  day  after  day,  were  left  upon  the  wall.  My 
pet  cage-birds  were  allowed  to  remain  among  the  passion-flowers 
which  draped  the  balcony.  The  most  treasured  of  my  Italian 
poets  still  encumbered  the  pretty  rose-wood  table  ;  and  I  ran 
sacked  the  garden  and  little  green-house  again  and  again  for 
choice  flowers  to  fill  the  vases  of  antique  china,  which  had  been 
handed  down  an  heir-loom  in  my  mother's  family. 

"  My  father  went  to  meet  his  ward  at  the  last  stage  I  shall 
never  forget  the  girlish  impatience  with  which  I  waited  his  return  ; 
but  it  was  not  till  after  the  canaries  had  nestled  down  on  their 
perches  in  the  evening  twilight,  and  the  little  room  which  I  had 
prepared  for  our  guest  was  misty  with  odors  shed  from  the  nu 
merous  vases  and  wafted  in  from  the  flowering  thickets  beneath 
the  windows,  that  we  saw  them  slowly  picking  their  way  through 
the  tangled  luxuriance  of  my  garden. 

"  Heedless  of  my  mother's  entreaty,  that  I  would  remain  quiet 
and  receive  our  guest  in  due  form,  I  sprang  out  upon  the  balcony, 
and  winding  my  arm  around  one  of  its  pillars,  pushed  back 
the  clustering  passion-flowers,  and  bent  eagerly  over  to  obtain  a 
perfect  view  of  our  visitor.  I  did  not  care  that  my  arm  was 
crushing  the  delicate  flowers  which  clung  around  the  pillar,  and 
that  my  canaries  were  fluttering  in  affright  from  my  sudden  ap 
proach,  but  fixed  my  eyes  with  a  deeper  feeling  than  that  of 
mere  curiosity  on  my  father  and  his  companion. 

"  He  was  a  slight,  aristocratic  youth,  with  an  air  of  thoughtful 


MY    FATHER'S    WARD.  79 

manliness  beyond  his  years,  not  the  manliness  to  be  acquired  in 
society  alone  ;  but  a  dignity  originating  in  deep  and  correct 
habits  of  thought,  seemed  natural  to  him.  He  was  very  hand 
some,  almost  too  much  so  for  a  man. ,  The  symmetry  and  calm 
repose  of  his  features  were  not  sufficiently  marked  for  changeful 
expression  ;  yet  their  usual  tone  was  singularly  pleasing.  I  have 
never  seen  a  face  so  strongly  characterized  by  intellect  and  bene 
volence. 

"He  was  speaking  as  he  advanced  up  the  serpentine  walk  which 
led  to  the  balcony,  and  seemed  to  be  making  some  observation 
on  the  wild  beauty  of  the  garden.  Once  he  stooped  to  put  back 
a  tuft  of  carnations  which  fell  over  the  path,  and  again  he  paused 
to  admire  a  large  white-rose  tree,  which  half  concealed  the  flight 
of  steps  leading  to  the  balcony  on  which  I  stood. 

"  There  was  something  in  the  tones  of  his  voice,  a  quiet  dignity 
in  his  manner,  that  awed  me.  I  shrunk  back  into  the  room  where 
my  mother  was  sitting,  and  placed  myself  by  her  side.  My  cheek 
burned  and  my  heart  beat  rapidly  when  he  entered.  But  my  con 
fusion  passed  unnoticed,  or  if  remarked,  was  attributed  to  the 
bashfulness  of  extreme  youth. 

"  Varnham  was  my  senior  by  four  years,  and  he  evidently  con 
sidered  me  as  a  child,  for,  after  a  courteous  bow  on  my  introduc 
tion,  he  turned  to  my  mother  and  began  to  speak  of  the  village 
and  its  remarkable  quietude.  He  even  seemed  surprised  when  I 
joined  familiarly  in  conversation  during  the  evening  ;  and  more 
than  once  looked  in  my  face  with  an  air  of  concern  and  disap 
proval  when  I  answered  either  of  my  parents  in  the  careless  and 
abrupt  manner  which  their  excessive  indulgence  had  made  habi 
tual  to  me. 

"  I  returned  to  my  room  that  night  out  of  humor  with  myself, 
and  somewhat  in  awe  of  our  guest.  I  had  evidently  rendered 
myself  an  object  of  dislike  to  him,  when  I  had  been  most  anxious 
to  please.  This  consciousness  originated  a  feeling  of  self-distrust, 
and  I  was  both  hurt  and  offended  that  he  did  not  look  on  me  with 
the  blind  partiality  of  my  parents. 


80  MARY      DER  WENT. 

"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  went  to  the  mirror,  anxious 
about  my  personal  appearance.  I  had  been  taught,  or  rather 
allowed,  to  believe  myself  beautiful  ;  but  it  rather  displeased  me 
than  otherwise.  There  was  something  of  contempt  in  my  nature 
for  mere  personal  loveliness,  which  rendered  its  possession  a  mat 
ter  of  slight  importance.  I  had  an  innate  longing  to  be  loved 
for  something  more  lofty  than  mere  symmetry  of  person  or  fea 
tures — an  ambition  to  be  distinguished  for  the  qualities  and 
accomplishments  which  I  could  myself  acquire,  rather  than  for 
those  bestowed  by  nature.  But  this  evening  I  loosened  the 
blue  ribbon  which  bound  my  hair,  and  shook  the  mass  of  long 
tresses  over  my  shoulders,  with  a  feeling  of  anxiety  which  I  had 
never  before  experienced.  I  contrasted  the  rich  bloom  on  my 
cheek  with  the  pale  and  graceful  loveliness  of  my  mother,  and 
felt  how  infinitely  I  fell  short  of  that  exquisite  refinement  of  look 
and  manner  which  characterized  her  above  all  women  I  had  ever 
seen.  I  was  disgusted  with  the  richness  and  exuberance  of  my 
own  healthful  beauty,  and  felt  almost  jealous  of  the  gentle  attrac 
tions  of  my  sweet  parent. 

"  The  disapproving  look  with  which  young  Varnham  had  re 
garded  me,  haunted  my  slumbers.  It  was  the  first  token  of  disap 
probation  that  had  ever  reached  my  heart,  and  it  filled  me  with 
strange  hesitation  and  self-distrust.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
wish  our  new  inmate  away,  and  yet  I  felt  under  restraint  in  my 
father's  house. 

"  The  history  of  the  next  two  years  would  be  one  of  the  heart 
alone — a  narrative  of  unfolding  intellect  and  feeling.  It  was  im 
possible  that  two  persons,  however  dissimilar  in  taste  and  dispo 
sition,  should  be  long  domesticated  in  the  same  dwelling  without 
gradually  assimilating  in  some  degree.  Perhaps  two  beings  more 
decidedly  unlike  never  met  than  Varnham  and  myself,  but  after 
the  first  restraint  which  followed  our  introduction  wore  off,  he 
became  to  me  a  preceptor  and  most  valuable  friend. 

"  Hitherto  my  reading  had  been  desultory,  and  my  studies  inter 
rupted.  I  had  become  accomplished  almost  without  effort,  deeply 


MY    FATHER'S     WARD.  81 

read  without  method,  and  conversant  even  with  many  of  the  ab 
struse  sciences  by  constant  intercourse  with  my  father  I  had 
little  application,  and  yet  accomplished  much  by  mere  force  of 
character.  My  whole  energies  were  flung  into  the  occupation  of 
the  moment,  and  almost  instinctively  I  had  accumulated  a  rich 
store  of  mental  wealth;  but  my  mind  lacked  method.  I  had 
extensive  general,  but  little  minute  knowledge.  Except  in  the 
common  run  of  feminine  accomplishments,  I  had  submitted  but 
to  imperfect  discipline.  Among  these,  painting  and  music  were 
my  peculiar  delight;  a  travelling  artist  had  given  me  lessons  in 
the  first,  and  my  own  sweet  mother  taught  me  the  last — to  her 
gentle  heart,  music  was  almost  as  necessary  as  the  air  she  breathed. 
I  inherited  all  her  love  and  all  her  talent  for  it;  but  with  her  it 
was  a  sweet  necessity;  with  me  a  passion.  I  revelled  in  the  lux 
ury  of  sound;  she  only  delighted  in  it. 

"  Not  even  Varnham — and  his  power  with  me  was  great — could 
induce  me  to  undertake  a  course  of  regular  study;  but,  after  his 
residence  with  us,  my  mind  gradually  yielded  to  the  influence  of 
his  teaching — became  stronger,  more  methodical,  and  far  more 
capable  of  reasoning.  But  as  I  more  nearly  approached  the 
standard  of  his  intellect,  my  reverence  for  him  decreased.  The 
awe  in  which  he  first  held  me  gradually  died  away,  and  that  feel 
ing  which  had  been  almost  love,  settled  down  to  strong  sisterly 
affection — deeper  and  more  lasting,  perhaps,  than  a  more  passion 
ate  attachment  might  have  been.  I  could  no  longer  look  up  to 
him  as  a  being  of  superior  strength  and  energy  to  myself;  but 
next  to  my  parents  he  was  the  dearest  object  to  me  in  existence. 

"  Two  years  brought  Varnham  to  his  majority.  His  fortune, 
though  limited,  was  equal  to  his  wants;  he  resolved  to  travel, 
and  then  take  orders,  for  he  had  been  intended  for  the  church. 
It  was  a  sorrowful  day  to  us  when  he  left  the  parsonage.  The 
lonely  feelings  which  followed  his  departure  never  gave  place  to 
cheerfulness  again.  In  four  weeks  from  that  day  my  father  was 
laid  in  the  vault  of  his  own  loved  church.  My  gentle  mother 
neither  wept  nor  moaned  when  she  saw  the  beloved  of  her  youth 

G 


82  MAKYDERWENT. 

laid  beside  the  gorgeous  coffins  of  his  lordly  ancestors.  But  in 
three  weeks  after,  I  was  alone  in  the  wide  world ;  for  she  was 
dead  also. 

"  Two  weary,  sad  nights,  I  sat  beside  that  beautiful  corpse, 
still  and  tearless,  in  a  waking  dream.  I  remember  that  kind 
voices  were  around  me,  and  that  more  than  once  pitying  faces 
bent  over  me,  and  strove  to  persuade  me  away  from  my  melan 
choly  vigils.  But  I  neither  answered  nor  moved  ;  they  sighed  as 
they  spoke,  and  passed  in  and  out,  like  the  actors  of  a  tragedy 
in  which  I  had  no  part.  I  was  stupefied  by  the  first  great  trouble 
of  my  life  ! 

"  The  third  night,  came  strange  men  into  the  room,  bearing  a 
coffin  covered  with  crimson  velvet  and  glittering  with  silver.  My 
heart  had  been  very  cold,  but  it  lay  within  me  like  marble 
when  those  men  reverently  lifted  the  body  of  my  beautiful 
mother,  and  laid  it  upon  the  pillow  which  had  been  placed  for 
her  last  rest.  Had  they  spoken  a  word  I  think  my  heart  would 
have  broken  ;  but  they  passed  out  with  a  slow,  solemn  tread, 
bearing  the  coffin  between  them. 

"  I  rose  and  followed  to  the  little  room  in  which  I  had  first  seen 
Varnham.  A  thrill  of  pain,  like  the  quick  rush  of  an  arrow, 
shot  through  my  heart  as  I  entered.  It  was  the  first  keen 
anguish  I  had  felt  since  the  burial  of  my  father.  The  men  sat 
down  the  coffin,  and  again  I  was  alone  with  my  dead — alone  in 
the  dear  sanctuary  of  our  domestic  affections. 

"  As  I  looked  around  the  apartment,  gentle  associations 
crowded  on  my  heart,  and  partially  aroused  it  to  a  sense  of  its 
bereavement.  The  scent  of  withered  flowers  was  shed  from  the 
neglected  vases,  and  a  soft  night  wind  came  through  the  sash- 
doors,  wafting  in  a  cloud  of  perfume  from  the  garden.  The 
balmy  air  came  refreshing  to  my  temples,  and  aroused  my  heart 
from  the  torpid  lethargy  which  had  bound  it  down  in  the  gloomy 
and  suffocating  chamber  above  ;  but  even  yet,  I  could  not  fully 
comprehend  the  extent  of  my  desolation.  Around  me  were  a 
thousand  dear  and  cherished  things,  connected  with  my  mother  ; 


MY    FATHER'S    WARD.  83 

and  before  me  lay  the  gorgeous  coffin  in  which  she  was  sleeping 
her  last,  long  death  sleep.  There  was  something  horrible  in  a 
sense  of  the  stifling  closeness  of  that  silken-lined  coffin.  I  raised 
the  lid,  and  felt  a  relief  when  the  cool  air  stole  over  the  beautiful 
face  beneath  ;  it  seemed  as  if  my  mother  must  bless  me  that  I 
had  released  her  once  more  from  the  terrible  closeness  of  the  grave 
— that  I  had  given  her  back  to  life  and  the  pure  air  of  heaven. 

"  A  silver  lamp  stood  on  the  mantel-piece,  shedding  a  dim 
funereal  light  through  the  room,  and  revealing  the  sweet,  pale 
face  of  the  dead  with  the  shadowy  indistinctness  of  moonlight. 
But,  though  she  lay  there  so  still  and  cold,  I  could  not,  even  yet, 
feel  that  she  was  truly  and  forever  departed.  The  fountains  of 
my  heart  were  still  locked,  and  as  one  in  a  dream  I  turned  away 
and  stepped  out  upon  the  balcony. 

"  The  passion-flower  was  in  bloom,  and  hung  in  festoons  of  starry 
blossoms  from  the  balustrades.  The  solitary  white-rose  tree  was 
Standing  by  the  steps  as  it  had  two  years  before  ;  but  its 
branches  had  spread  and  shot  upwards  over  the  front  of  the 
balcony  in  profuse  leafiness.  A  host  of  pearly  blossoms,  inter 
mingled  with  the  passion-flowers,  and  hung  in  clustering  beauty 
around  the  pillars  and  rude  stone-work.  The  steps  were  white 
with  a  shower  of  leaves  which  the  breeze  had  shaken  from  the 
over-ripe  roses,  and  their  breath  was  shed  around  with  a  soft 
steady  sweetness.  The  holy  moonlight  was  around  me,  bathing 
the  flower-beds  at  my  feet  and  trembling  over  the  dewy  thickets 
— beyond,  lay  the  grave-yard,  half  veiled  by  the  shadow  of  the 
little  church.  Where  the  light  fell  upon  it,  a  few  marble  slabs 
gleamed  up  from  the  rank  grass,  and  the  yew  trees  swayed 
gently  in  the  wind  with  a  soft  dirge-like  melody. 

"  An  agonizing  conviction  of  my  loss  struck  upon  my  heart  like 
the  toll  of  a  bell — I  felt  it  all  !  My  father  was  dead — buried — 
that  humble  church  shut  him  out  from  my  sight  forever  !  My 
mother  was  there — I  did  not  weep  nor  moan  ;  my  heart  seemed 
silently  breaking.  While  the  pang  was  keenest,  I  gathered  a 
handful  of  roses  from  the  tree  which  my  mother  had  planted  ;  care- 


84  MAE  Y      DEE  WENT. 

fully  selecting  the  half-blown  and  most  delicate  flowers,  such  as 
she  had  most  loved,  and  scattered  them,  heavy  with  dew  as  they 
were,  over  the  pillow  and  the  velvet  of  my  mother's  coffin.  There 
was  one  bud  but  half  unfolded,  and  with  a  soft  blush  slumbering 
within  its  core — such  as  she  had  always  worn  in  her  bosom  on 
my  father's  birth-day.  That  germ  brought  the  date  of  the 
month  to  my  mind.  That  should  have  been  our  annual  day  of 
rejoicing,  and  they  were  both  gone  to  keep  it  in  another  world  ; 
I  was  alone — alone  ! 

"  I  took  the  bud  carefully,  that  the  dew  might  not  fall  away 
from  its  heart,  and  removing  the  grave-clothes,  laid  it  on  the 
marble  bosom  of  my  mother.  I  was  about  to  draw  the  shroud 
•  over  it,  that  she  might  go  down  to  the  grave  with  the  sweet  me 
morial  blooming  within  her  bosom,  when  the  leaves  trembled 
beneath  my  gaze  as  if  stirred  by  the  pulsation  of  the  heart 
beneath.  A  cry,  half  of  joy,  half  of  fear,  burst  from  my  lips  : 
I  pressed  my  shivering  hand  down  upon  her  heart — it  was  still — 
oh,  how  still  !  The  night  winds  had  mocked  me. 

"  Then,  the  passion  of  grief  burst  over  me.  I  fell  to  the  floor, 
and  my  very  life  seemed  ebbing  away  in  tears  and  lamentations. 
Hour  after  hour  passed  by,  and  I  remained  as  I  had  fallen,  in  an 
agony  of  sorrow.  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  towards  morning 
I  sunk  into  a  heavy  slumber.  • 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MY   HUSBAND. 


"  WHEN  I  awoke,  the  dawn  was  trembling  through  the  heavy 
foliage  of  the  balcony,  and  I  observed,  without  thinking  how  it 
had  happened,  that  in  my  death-like  slumber  I  had  been  lifted 
from  the  carpet  and  laid  upon  a  sofa.  My  head  was  dizzy,  and 


MY      HUSBAND.  85 

acute  pain  shot  through  my  temples  ;  but  I  arose  and  staggered 
to  the  coffin.  It  was  closed,  but  the  roses  which  I  had  scattered 
over  it,  lay  still  fresh  and  dewy  upon  the  glowing  velvet.  I  made 
a  feeble  attempt  to  unclose  the  lid,  but  my  head  reeled,  and  I 
fell  to  the  floor.  A  step  was  on  the  balcony,  the  sash-door  was 
carefully  opened;  some  one  raised  me  tenderly  in  his  arms  and 
bore  me  away. 

"  When  I  again  returned  to  consciousness,  Varnham  was  sit 
ting  beside  my  bed  ;  physicians  and  attendants  were  gliding  softly 
about  the  room,  and  everything  was  hush  as  death  around  me. 
I  was  very  tired  and  weak  ;  but  I  remembered  that  my  mother 
was  dead,  and  that  I  hacl  fainted  ;  I  whispered  a  request  to  see 
her  once  more — she  had  been  buried  three  weeks. 

"  Varnham  had  heard  of  my  father's  death  in  Paris,  and 
hastened  home,  to  find  me  an  orphan  doubly  bereaved,  to  become 
my  nurse  and  my  counsellor — my  all.  Most  tenderly  did  he 
watch  over  me  during  my  hours  of  convalescence.  And  I  re 
turned  his  love  with  a  gratitude  as  fervent  as  ever  warmed  the 
heart  of  woman. 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  business,  scarcely  that  money  was  necessary 
to  secure  the  elegancies  I  enjoyed.  I  had  not  even  dreamed  of 
a  change  of  residence,  and  when  information  reached  us  that  a 
rector  had  been  appointed  to  supply  my  father's  place,  and  that 
Lord  Granby,  the  elder  brother  of  my  lamented  parent,  had 
consented  to  receive  me  as  an  inmate  of  his  own  house,  I  sunk 
beneath  the  blow  as  if  a  second  and  terrible  misfortune  had  be 
fallen  me. 

"The  thought  of  being  dragged  from  my  home — from  the  sweet 
haunts  which  contained  the  precious  remembrances  of  my  parents 
— and  conveyed  to  the  cold,  lordly  halls  of  my  aristocratic  uncle, 
nearly  flung  me  back  to  a  state  of  delirium. 

"  There  was  but  one  being  on  earth  to  whom  I  could  turn  for 
protection,  and  to  him  my  heart  appealed  with  the  trust  and 
tender  confidence  of  a  sister.  I  pleaded  with  him  to  intercede 
with  my  uncle,  that  I  might  be  permitted  still  to  reside  at  the 


86  MAKYDERWENT. 

parsonage — that  I  might  not  be  taken  from  all  my  love  could 
ever  cling  to.  Varnham  spoke  kindly  and  gently  to  me  ;  he  ex 
plained  the  impropriety,  if  not  the  impossibility  of  Lord  Granby's 
granting  my  desire,  and  besought  me  to  be  resigned  to  a  fate 
which  many  in  my  forlorn  orphanage  might  justly  covet.  He 
spoke  of  the  gaieties  and  distinction  which  my  residence  with 
Lord  Granby  would  open  to  me,  and  used  every  argument  to 
reconcile  me  to  my  destiny.  But  my  heart  clung  tenaciously  to 
its  old  idols,  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 

"  Had  I  been  flung  on  the  world  to  earn  my  bread  by  daily  toil, 
there  was  enough  of  energy  in  my  nature  to  have  met  difficulties 
and  to  have  struggled  successfully  with*them  ;  but  to  become  a 
hanger-on  in  the  halls  of  my  ancestors — a  humble  companion  to 
my  fashionable  and  supercilious  cousin — the  heiress  of  Lord 
Granby's  title  and  wealth — subject  to  her  surveillance,  and  sub 
missive  to  her  caprices,  was  a  life  which  my  heart  revolted  at; 
I  spurned  the  splendid  slavery  which  was  to  compromise  my  in 
dependence  and  humble  my  pride. 

"  Had  Varnham  counselled  action  instead  of  patience  and  sub 
mission  ;  had  he  bade  me  go  forth  in  the  world,  depend  on 
my  own  energies,  and  win  for  myself  a  station  highest  among 
women,  my  own  spirit  would  have  seconded  his  counsel.  The 
ambition,  which  from  my  childhood  had  slumbered  an  inherent 
but  undeveloped  principle  in  my  heart,  might  have  sprung  up 
from  the  ashes  of  my  affections,  and  the  wild  dreams  of  struggle 
and  distinction,  which  haunted  my  earliest  years,  might  have 
lured  me  from  the  sweet  home  I  had  so  loved,  and  from  the  rest 
ing-place  of  those  who  had  so  loved  me. 

"  But  I  was  called  upon  to  give  up  all  for  a  distinction  which 
had  nothing  in  it  to  satisfy  a  free  heart  like  mine  ;  I  had  no 
desire  for  notoriety — no  merely  selfish  wish  to  shine  as  a 
beauty  or  a  Idk-esprit  among  a  crowd  of  superficial,  heartless 
creatures  of  fashion.  Ambition  was  with  me  but  the  aspirations 
of  a  proud  and  loving  nature — a  dream  of  power,  indistinct,  and, 
as  yet,  never  brought  into  action,  but  closely  united  with  the 


MY      HUSBAND. 


87 


affections.  In  intellect,  I  was,  perhaps,  too  independent — in 
feeling,  the  most  fervent  and  clinging  of  human  beings — a  desire 
to  be  loved  predominated  over  every  other  wish  of  my  being  ; 
and  yet  my  best  friend  counselled  me  to  yield  up  all,  and  content 
myself  with  cold,  hollow  grandeur.  I  strove  to  obey  him,  but 
looked  forward  with  no  hope. 

"  It  was  deep  in  the  morning — my  uncle's  coroneted  chariot 
was  drawn  up  before  my  quiet  home.  The  sun  flashed  brightly 
over  the  richly-studded  harnesses  of  four  superb  horses,  which 
tossed  their  heads  and  pawed  the  earth  impatient  for  the  road. 
A  footman,  in  livery,  lounged  upon  the  door  steps,  and  the  su 
percilious  coachman  stood  beside  his  horses,  dangling  his  silken 
reins,  now  and  then  casting  an  expectant  look  into  the  hall  door. 

"  It  was  natural  that  he  should  be  impatient,  for  they  had 
been  kept  waiting  more  than  an  hour.  I  thought  that  I  had 
nerved  myself  to  depart  ;  but  when  I  descended  from  my  cham 
ber,  and  saw  that  gorgeous  carriage,  with  its  silken  cushions 
and  gilded  panels,  ready  to  convey  me  to  the  hospitality  of  one 
who  was  almost  a  stranger,  my  heart  died  within  me.  I  turn 
ed  into  the  little  room  where  I  had  spent  that  night  of  sor 
row,  by  my  mother's  corpse;  I  flung  myself  on  the  sofa,  and 
burying  my  face  in  the  pillows,  sobbed  aloud  in  the  wretchedness 
of  a  heart  about  to  be  sundered  from  all  it  had  ever  loved. 
Varnhain  was  standing  over  me,  pale  and  agitated.  He  strove 
to  comfort  me — was  prodigal  in  words  of  soothing  and  endear 
ment,  and  at  length  of  passionate  supplication.  I  was  led  to 
the  carriage  his  affianced  wife. 

"  My  year  of  mourning  was  indeed  one  of  sorrow  and  loneliness 
of  heart  ;  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  home  of  my  ancestors,  and 
looked  forward  to  the  period  of  my  marriage  with  an  impatience 
which  would  have  satisfied  the  most  exacting  love.  It  was  a 
cheap  mode  of  obliging  his  orphan  niece,  and  Lord  Granby  pre 
sented  the  living  which  had  been  my  father's  to  Varnham,  who 
had  taken  orders,  and  was  ready  to  convey  me  back  a  bride  to 
my  old  home. 


88  MARY      DER  WENT. 

"  Had  my  relative  lavished  his  whole  fortune  on  me,  I  should 
not  have  been  more  grateful  !  My  capacities  for  enjoyment 
were  chilled  by  the  cold,  formal  dullness  of  his  dwelling.  I 
panted  for  the  dear  solitude  of  my  old  haunts,  as  the  prisoned 
bird  pines  for  his  home  in  the  green  leaves.  We  were  married 
before  the  altar  where  my  father  had  prayed,  and  where  I  had 
received  the  sacrament  of  baptism.  The  register  which  recorded 
my  birth,  bore  witness  to  my  union  with  Varnham,  the  only  true 
friend  my  solitary  destiny  had  left  to  me.  We  entered  our  old 
home,  rich  in  gentle  affections  and  holy  memories.  I  was  con 
tent  with  the  pleasant  vistas  of  life  that  opened  to  us.  How 
could  I  tell  if  the  gratitude,  the  affectionate  trust  with  which  I 
regarded  my  husband  reached  not  the  entire  depths  of  my  na 
ture  ?  How  could  I  question  if  my  heart  were  capable  of  a 
deeper,  more  passionate  and  fervent  attachment — if  it  might  not 
concentrate  its  whole  being  on  one  object.  My  own  nature  was 
a  sealed  book  then — I  had  not  learned  that  it  might  be  opened, 
where  my  whole  being  would  tremble  in  the  reading. 

"  Our  united  fortunes  were  sufficient  for  our  wants.  We  de 
termined  to  live  a  life  of  seclusion,  study,  and  well  performed 
duties,  such  as  had  made  the  happiness  of  my  parents.  Filled 
with  these  innocent  hopes,  I  took  possession  of  my  old  home,  a 
cheerful  and  contented  wife.  We  saw  but  little  company,  but 
my  -household  duties,  my  music,  painting,  and  needlework,  gave 
me  constant  and  cheerful  occupation,  and  three  years  of  almost 
thorough  contentment  passed  by  without  bringing  a  wish  beyond 
my  own  household.  At  this  time  a  daughter  was  born  to  us, 
and  in  the  fullness  of  my  content,  I  forgot  to  ask  if  there  was  a 
degree  of  happiness  which  I  had  never  tasted. 

"  The  fourth  year  after  my  marriage,  another  coffin  was  placed 
in  the  family  vault  beside  my  parents — that  of  James,  Earl  of 
Granby.  My  cousin,  Georgian  a,  scarcely  outlived  the  period  of 
her  mourning  ;  and,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  I,  who  had  never 
dreamed  of  worldly  aggrandizement,  suddenly  found  myself  a 
peeress  in  my  own  right,  and  possessor  of  one  of  the  finest  estates 


A       NEW       WORLD.  89 

in  England,  for  the  Granby  honors  descended  alike  to  male  and 
female  heirs,  and  I  was  the  last  of  our  race. 

"  At  first  I  was  bewildered  by  the  suddenness  of  my  exalta 
tion  ;  then,  as  if  one  burst  of  sunshine  were  only  necessary  to 
ripen  the  dormant  ambition  of  my  heart,  a  change  came  over 
my  whole  being.  A  new  and  brilliant  career  was  opened  to  me  ; 
visions  of  power,  greatness,  and  excitement  floated 'through  my 
imagination.  The  pleasant  contentment  of  my  life  was  broken 
up  forever. 

"  Varnham  took  no  share  in  my  restless  delight  ;  his  nature 
was  quiet  and  contemplative — his  taste  refined  and  essentially 
domestic.  What  happiness  could  he  look  for  in  the  brilliant 
destiny  prepared  for  us  ?  From  that  time  there  was  a  shadow 
as  of  evil  foreboding  in  his  eye,  and  his  manner  became  constrained 
and  regretful.  Perhaps  with  his  better  knowledge  of  the  world, 
he  trembled  to  find  me  so  near  that  vortex  of  artificial  life  into 
which  I  was  eager  to  plunge  myself. 

"  He  made  no  opposition  to  my  hasty  plans — nay,  admitted 
the  necessity  of  a  change  in  our  mode  of  living  •  but  that  anxious 
expression  never  for  a  moment  left  his  eyes.  He  seemed  rather 
a  victim  than  a  partaker  in  my  promised  greatness.  From  that 
time  our  pursuits  took  different  directions.  I  had  thoughts  and 
feelings  with  which  he  had  no  sympathy.  When  an  estrange 
ment  of  the  mind  commences,  that  of  the  heart  soon  follows." 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A    NEW    WORLD. 


"  AGAIN  that  splendid  carriage  stood  before  our  home,  ready 
to  convey  us  to  the  pillared  halls  of  my  inheritance.  There  were 
few,  and  those  few  transient,  regrets  in  my  heart  when,  with  a 


90  MARTDEBWENT. 

haughty  consciousness  of  power  and  station,  I  sunk  to  the 
cushioned  seat,  swept  proudly  around  that  old  church,  and 
away  from  the  sweet  leafy  bower  in  which  I  had  known  so  much 
of  happiness. 

"  There  was  nothing  of  awkwardness  or  constraint  in  my  feel 
ing  when  I  entered  the  domain  which  was  henceforth  to  own  me 
its  mistress.  My  pride,  not  my  vanity,  was  gratified  by  the 
manifestations  of  respect  which  met  us  at  every  step  after  passing 
its  broad  boundaries.  If  I  did  not  feel  all  the  stern  responsibili 
ties  which  fate  had  heaped  upon  me  with  the  princely  fortune  I 
was  about  to  possess  myself  of,  there  was  nothing  of  levity 
mingled  with  the  stronger  sensations  of  my  heart.  The  predomi 
nating  feeling  was  a  deep  and  almost  masculine  consciousness  of 
power,  a  sense  of  personal  dominion. 

"  While  in  the  possession  of  another,  I  had  viewed  the  ap 
pendages  of  greatness,  the  pomp  and  state  affected  by  the  aristo 
crat,  with  careless,  if  not  contemptuous  indifference.  I  had 
reverence  for  them  only  when  connected  with  high  intellect  or 
pure  virtue  ;  but  when  I  found  myself  possessed  of  these  hitherto 
despised  attributes — when  I  saw  them  centered  around  my  own 
person,  and  found  that  there  was  dominion  in  them — how 
proudly  my  heart  exulted  beneath  its  burden  of  external  greatness ! 
There  is  a  secret  love  of  power  in  every  heart.  In  mine  that 
love  had  become  a  passion,  from  the  day  such  abundant  means 
had  been  opened  for  its  gratification. 

"  The  house  in  which  I  had  spent  my  year  of  mourning,  was 
on  a  smaller  estate  in  a  distant  county,  and  I  had  never  seen 
Ashton  till  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brought  us  in  full  view  of 
it.  With  an  impulse  of  admiration  I  checked  the  carriage. 
Before  me  was  the  seat  of  my  ancestors,  and  around,  on  either 
hand,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  extended  my  domains.  The 
village  lay  in  the  undulating  distance,  amid  fields  of  waving  corn 
and  rich  pasture-lands,  that  swelled  greenly  up  to  the  horizon. 
The  groves  of  heavy  timber  through  which  we  passed,  the  vene 
rable  residence  of  my  forefathers,  whic,h  had  never  for  an  hour 


A      NEW      WORLD.  91 

been  out  of  the  direct  line  of  my  race — all  lay  within  my  gaze, 
and  all  were  mine — mine  !  How  proudly  the  consciousness  of 
possession  throbbed  at  my  heart  ! 

"  The  house  of  my  ancestors  was  a  vast  and  imposing  pile.  In 
its  construction  the  architecture  of  two  distinct  ages  was  blended, 
without  in  any  way  destroying  the  harmony  and  grandeur  of  the 
whole.  The  lofty  and  turreted  building  which  formed  the  cen 
tral  front,  towered  upward  in  dusky  and  gothic  magnificence. 
The  impress  of  by-gone  centuries  was  graven  upon  it  like  furrows 
upon  the  brow  of  an  aged  man.  The  wings,  which  spread  out 
on  either  side  behind  the  tall  old  trees  that  flung  a  cheerful  dra 
pery  around  them,  were  of  more  recent  creation  by  three  centu 
ries,  yet  they  were  built  of  the  same  dark,  pondrous  stone,  and 
their  massive  strength  was  in  excellent  keeping  with  the  original 
building. 

"  The  breeze  which  swept  by  us  was  heavy  with  fragrance, 
and  the  glow  of  an  extensive  flower-garden  broke  up  from  the 
shadow  of  the  building,  and  could  be  seen  at  intervals  through 
the  intervening  shrubbery,  even  from  the  distance  at  which 
we  halted.  A  lawn  of  the  richest  sward  fell  with  a  long, 
gradual  slope  from  the  mansion,  till  it  was  lost  in  the  deep  leafy 
shadows  of  a  park,  which  was  almost  a  forest  in  extent  and 
denseness  of  foliage.  Some  of  the  finest  old  oaks  in  the  kingdom 
grew  within  it,  overshadowing  a  hundred  winding  paths,  inter 
sected  by  a  bright  stream,  which  flowed  capriciously  through  the 
knotted  roots,  now  flashing  across  a  vista,  and  again  leaping  off 
in  a  foaming  cascade,  sending  out  a  clear,  bell-like  music  from 
the  green  depths,  then  starting  away  again,  scarcely  breaking 
the  hush  of  the  wood  in  its  soft  and  pleasant  progress. 

"  Our  road  lay  through  the  outskirts  of  the  park,  and  the 
half-tamed  deer  came  out  of  their  coverts  and  gazed  on  us,  as 
we  passed  by,  with  their  dark  intelligent  eyes,  then  bounded 
away  through  the  firm  old  oaks,  as  if  they,  too,  would  hold  some 
share  in  the  general  rejoicing.  I  shall  never  forget  the  strong 
and  thrilling  delight  of  that  hour. 


92  MAKYDERWENT. 

"  The  first  night  spent  beneath  the  roof  of  my  inheritance  was 
one  of  restlessness  and  inquietude.  My  brain  was  thronged  with 
shifting  and  brilliant  visions,  and  I  lay  with  sleepless  eyes  and 
aching  temples,  extended  on  my  silken  bed,  exhausted  and  weary 
with  pleasurable  excitement.  I  shall  never  forget  the  delight 
with  which  I  half  rose  in  the  morning  and  looked  about  my  sump 
tuous  apartment,  while  Varnham  was  quietly  sleeping,  un 
moved  by  the  change  which  had  made  me  almost  forgetful  of  him. 

"  The  sun  was  stealing  through  rose-colored  curtains  of  the 
richest  silk,  which  fell  heavily  over  the  windows,  and  shed  a 
mellow  and  blooming  light  through  the  room.  Pale  green  dra 
pery,  lined  with  the  same  soft  rose-tint,  looped  and  fringed  with 
gold,  fell  from  the  canopy  above  my  couch,  and  swept  the  Per 
sian  carpet  which  spread  away  in  a  succession  of  brilliant  and 
yet  subdued  colors  over  the  floor.  The  foot  sunk  deep  into  its 
moss-like  texture  when  it  was  trod  upon,  and  it  seemed  breaking 
into  bloom  beneath  me,  so  natural  did  the  gorgeous  flowers  glow 
out  in  the  tinted  light.  Two  exquisite  cabinet  pictures  hung 
before  me,  and  my  recumbent  form  was  reflected  back  by  a  tall 
mirror  as  I  half  leaned  out  of  bed,  that  I  might  comprehend  in 
one  view  all  the  luxurious  arrangement  of  my  chamber. 

"  There  was  a  charm  flung  over  everything  ;  for  all  was  en 
joyed  for  the  first  time,  and  all  was  mine  !  My  own  beauty 
never  before  seemed  so  rich  as  when  it  was  revealed  to  me  in 
that  broad  mirror,  and  after  I  had  become  satisfied  with  dwell 
ing  on  the  splendor  which  surrounded  me,  I  turned  with  newly 
aroused  vanity  to  gaze  upon  myself — upon  the  long  and  beauti 
ful  hair  which,  in  my  restlessness,  had  broken  loose  over  my 
shoulders  in  all  the  golden  gloss  of  youth — upon 

"  But  my  husband  awoke,  and  I  sunk  to  my  pillow,  blushing 
and  ashamed  of  this  overweening  selfishness  ;  for  in  all  that  I 
had  looked  upon,  he  was  forgotten.  I  had  in  my  heart  given 
him  no  share,  and  when  he  arose  and  kissed  my  cheek,  and 
spoke  in  his  old  familiar  voice,  it  seemed  as  if  that  gentle  kiss 
flung  coldness  upon  my  aspiring  wishes. 


ANEWWOBLD.  93 

"  Everything  rich  and  beautiful  had  been  lavished  by  my  pre 
decessor  in  the  adornment  of  Ashton.  Paintings  of  priceless 
worth  lined  its  galleries,  and  sculptured  marble  started  up  at 
every  turn  to  charm  me  with  the  pure  and  classic  loveliness 
of  statuary.  Tables  of  rare  mosaic — ancient  tapestry  and 
articles  of  virtu,  gathered  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  were 
collected  there  ;  my  taste  for  the  arts — my  love  of  the  beautiful, 
made  it  almost  a  paradise,  and  it  was  long  before  I  wearied  of 
the  almost  regal  magnificence  which  surrounded  me.  But  after 
a  time  these  things  became  familiar  ;  excitement  gradually  wore 
away,  and  my  now  restless  spirit  panted  for  change — for  deeper 
draughts  from  the  sparkling  cup,  which  I  had  found  so  pleasant 
in  tasting. 

"  As  the  season  advanced  I  proposed  going  up  to  London  ; 
Varnham  consented,  but  reluctantly  ;  I  saw  this  almost  without 
notice  ;  the  time  had  passed  when  his  wishes  predominated  over 
mine.  I  had  become  selfish  and  unyielding  in  my  aggrandizement. 
I  wished  him  to  fling  aside  the  dignified  and  unostentatious  con 
tentment  of  a  heart  which  found  sufficient  resources  for  happi 
ness  in  its  own  exceeding  purity  and  cultivation,  and  to  tread 
hand  in  hand  with  me  the  dazzling  path  through  which  I  had 
begun  to  lead  so  proudly.  But  it  was  not  in  his  nature  ;  there 
was  too  much  of  calmness  and  quiet — too  little  of  aspiring  energy 
in  his  disposition  to  assimilate  with  mine.  In  short,  he  was 
too  good — had  too  much  of  real  loftiness  of  mind  to  sacrifice 
his  intellectual  ease  to  the  idols  which  I  was  so  ready  to  bow 
before. 

"  Varnham  was  not  ambitious,  but  he  was  essentially  a  proud 
man.  He  sought  not  and  cared  not  for  station  and  renown,  but 
guarded  well  the  dignity  of  his  own  upright  heart — the  treasure 
of  his  firm  self  esteem.  In  those  days  I  was  not  capable  of 
appreciating  the  rare  combinations  of  a  character  like  his,  and 
took  that  for  weakness  which  was  in  truth  the  highest  degree  of 
moral  and  mental  strength. 

"  There  was  a  disparity  in  our  condition  which  must  have  pained 


94  MARYDEKWENT. 

him,  though  he  gave  no  outward  demonstrations  of  it.  Ho 
was  not  master  of  his  own  dwelling.  It  was  his  wife's  house 
which  he  inhabited,  not  his  own.  In  all  things  a  secondary 
object,  his  position  was  a  false  one,  and  there  could  be  no 
happiness  in  it.  But  I  was  young  then — young,  full  of  bright, 
vague  projects,  and  never  dreamed  that,  in  my  thoughtless  pride, 
I  was  pulling  down  the  pillars  of  my  own  safety  :  that  in  thus 
planting  myself  in  front  of  my  husband  before  the  world,  I  was 
degrading  him  in  his  estimation,  and  from  his  station  in  my  own. 
heart. 

"  I  am  certain  that  Yarnham  doubted  my  strength  to  resist 
the  temptations  of  a  season  in  town.  It  was  a  groundless  fear  ; 
there  was  nothing  in  the  heartless  supercilious  people  of  fashion, 
whom  I  met  to  captivate  a  heart  like  mine.  I  was  young,  beauti 
ful,  new,  and  soon  became  the  fashion — the  envy  of  women, 
and  the  worshipped  idol  of  men.  I  was  not  for  a  moment  de 
luded  by  the  homage  lavished  upon  me.  I  received  the  worship, 
but  in  my  heart  despised  the  worshippers.  No  !  I  passed  through 
the  whirl  and  brilliant  bustle  of  a  London  season  unscathed  in. 
heart  and  mind.  My  conquest  over  the  circle  of  fashion  had 
been  too  easily  obtained.  There  was  nothing  to  gratify  a  higher 
feeling  than  vanity  in  it,  and  from  the  impulses  of  empty  self- 
love  alone  I  was  in  no  danger.  Nothing  seemed  capable  of 
filling  the  strange  void  in  my  life,  I  possessed  power  and  all  that 
makes  power  of  value,  but  the  men  and  women  on  whom  it  could 
be  exercised  disappointed  me  terribly. 

"  One  advantage  was  gained  to  Varnham  which  was  little  to  be 
expected.  I  had  always  cherished  a  beau  ideal  in  my  mind 
which  he  failed  to  reach.  Until  my  residence  in  London,  I  had 
never  had  an  opportunity  to  compare  him  with  the  great  mass 
of  men.  But  when  this  privilege  was  given  me,  how  infinitely 
did  he  rise  above  the  throng  of  lordly  exquisites,  the  literary 
pretenders  and  cold-blooded  politicians,  who  surrounded  me  with 
their  homage.  I  felt  that  I  had  never  truly  estimated  the  calm 
dignity  of  his  mind  before  ;  but  even  then  I  did  not  love  him  as 


A      NEW      WORLD.  95 

I  felt  myself  capable  of  loving.  The  pure,  sisterly  affection  I 
had  ever  felt  for  him — the  esteem  and  even  tenderness  with  which 
I  met  him  on  the  first  day  of  our  union,  returned  wholly  to  my 
heart,  but  that  was  not  love — at  least,  not  the  love  of  a  soul  like 
mine. 

"  Varnham  did  not  entirely  relinquish  his  rectorship,  but  gave 
its  emoluments  to  the  curate  who  performed  the  duties,  reserving 
the  house  which  we  both  loved,  to  ourselves.  He  went  down  to 
the  old  place  occasionally,  and  though  I  never  accompanied  him, 
it  was  pleasant  to  know  that  the  haunts  of  my  early  love  were 
still  kept  sacred.  When  the  season  broke  up  I  invited  a  party 
to  Ashton,  but  Varuham  persuaded  me  to  spend  the  month  which 
would  intervene  before  its  arrival,  at  the  parsonage.  I  was 
weary  with  the  rush  and  bustle  of  my  town  life,  and  willingly 
consented  to  his  plan. 

"  Our  house  was  shut  up,  the  servants  went  down  to  Ashton, 
and  Varnham,  one  friend  and  myself,  settled  quietly  in  our  own 
former  home.  The  repose  of  that  beautiful  valley  had  some 
thing  heavenly  in  it,  after  the  turmoil  of  London.  Old  associ 
ations  came  up  to  soften  the  heart,  and  I  was  happier  than  I 
had  been  since  coming  in  possession  of  my  inheritance. 

"  The  friend  whom  Varnham  invited  to  share  the  quiet  of  the 
parsonage  with  us,  had  made  himself  conspicuous  as  a  young 
man  of  great  talent  in  the  lower  house  ;  yet  I  knew  less  of  him 
than  of  almost  any  distinguished  person  in  society.  We  had 
met  often  in  the  whirl  of  town  life,  but  a  few  passing  words  and 
cold  compliments  alone  marked  our  intercourse.  There  was 
something  of  reserve  and  stiffness  in  his  manner,  by  no  means 
flattering  to  my  self-love,  and  I  was  rather  prejudiced  against 
him  than  otherwise  from  his  extreme  popularity. 

"  There  was  something  in  my  nature  which  refused  to  glide 
tamely  down  the  current  of  other  people's  opinions,  and  the  sud 
den  rise  of  young  Murray  with  his  political  party,  the  adulation 
lavished  upon  him  by  the  lion-loving  women  of  fashion,  only 
served  to  excite  my  contempt  for  them,  and  to  make  me  with- 


96  MARYDEKWENT. 

hold  from  him  the  high  opinion  justly  earned  by  talents  of  no 
ordinary  character. 

"  When  he  took  his  seat  in  our  travelling  carriage,  it  was  with 
his  usual  cold  and  almost  uncourteous  manner  ;  but  by  degrees 
all  restraint  wore  off,  his  conversational  powers  were  excited, 
and  I  found  myself  listening  with  a  degree  of  admiration  seldom 
aroused  in  my  bosom,  to  his  brilliant  off-hand  eloquence.  Yarn- 
ham  seemed  pleased  that  my  former  unreasonable  prejudices  were 
yielding  to  the  charm  of  his  friend's  genius — and  our  ride  was 
one  of  the  most  agreeable  of  my  then  pleasant  life. 

"  It  was  not  till  after  we  had  been  at  the  parsonage  several 
days,  that  the  speeches  which  had  so  suddenly  lifted  our  guest 
into  notice,  came  under  my  observation.  I  was  astonished  at 
their  depth  and  soundness.  There  was  depth  and  brilliancy, 
flashes  of  rich,  strong  poetry,  mingled  with  the  argument — a  vivid, 
quick  eloquence  in  the  style,  that  stirred  my  heart  like  martial 
music.  By  degrees  the  great  wealth  of  Murray's  intellect,  the 
manly  strength  and  tenderness  of  his  nature,  revealed  themselves. 
His  character  was  a  grand  one  ;  I  could  look  up  to  that  man  with 
my  whole  being,  and  grow  prouder  from  the  homage. 

"  A  love  of  intellectual  greatness,  a  worship  of  mind,  had  ever 
been  a  leading  trait  in  my  character.  In  that  man  I  found  more 
than  mind.  He  was  strong  in  principle,  rich  in  feeling,  deep 
earnest  feeling,  which  a  great  soul  might  battle  against  if  duty 
commanded,  and  restrain,  but  never  wholly  conquer. 

"We  had  mistaken  each  other,  and  there  lay  the  danger.  I 
had  believed  him  cold  and  ambitious.  He  had  looked  upon 
Lady  Granby  as  a  frivolous,  selfish  woman,  who  would  be  for 
ever  quaffing  the  foam  of  life  but  never  reach  the  pure  wine  ; 
one  with  whom  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  become  ac 
quainted. 

"  A  few  days  in  the  old  parsonage  house  sufficed  to  enlighten 
us  both.  There  I  was  natural,  gentle,  loving — glad  to  get  among 
innocent  things  again.  In  those  little  rooms  I  forgot  everything 
but  the  pleasure  of  being  at  home.  Weeks  passed  before  I  knew 


ANEW      WORLD.  97 

why  that  home  had  been  turned  into  a  paradise  to  which  all  pre 
vious  memories  were  as  nothing. 

"  I  think  he  recognized  the  evil  that  was  creeping  over  us  first, 
for  he  began  to  avoid  me,  and  for  a  time,  though  in  the  same 
house,  we  scarcely  spoke  together. 

"  But  he  loved  me  spite  of  his  struggles,  his  sensitive  honor,  his 
iron  resolves  ;  he  loved  me,  his  friend's  wife,  but  he  was  strong 
and  honorable.  The  mighty  spirit  which  had  taken  possession 
of  his  heart  unawares,  could  not  all  at  once  be  driven  forth,  but 
it  had  no  power  to  overcome  his  integrity.  He  was  too  brave 
and  loyal  for  domestic  treason. 

"  This  nobility  of  character  was  enough  to  chain  my  soul  to  his 
forever.  I  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  myself ;  well  I  knew 
that  the  sweet  but  terrible  power  growing  up  in  my  life  was  a 
sin  to  be  atoned  for  with  years  of  suffering,  for  souls  like  ours 
must  avenge  themselves  for  the  wrong  feelings,  more  certainly 
than  ordinary  natures  find  retribution  for  evil  deeds. 

"  When  the  first  knowledge  came  upon  me  that  I  loved  my 
husband's  friend,  it  overwhelmed  me  with  consternation.  The 
danger  of  a  thing  like  this  had  never  entered  my  thoughts — my 
heart  had  been  asleep — its  awaking  frightened  me.  Mine  was 
not  a  mad  passion  that  defies  human  laws,  and  moral  ties,  or  that 
deceives  itself  with  sophistry.  Never  for  a  moment  did  I  at 
tempt  to  justify  or  excuse  it.  I  knew  that  such  love  would  have 
changed  my  whole  being  to  gentleness,  holiness,  humility,  any 
thing  bright  and  good,  had  freedom  made  it  innocent  ;  but  I 
never  once  thought  of  breaking  the  ties  that  bound  me.  If  I  was 
a  slave,  my  own  will  had  riveted  the  chains  upon  my  wrist ;  I 
was  not  one  to  tear  them  off  because  the  iron  began  to  gall 
me. 

"  No,  no  ;  the  love  that  I  bore  him  was  deep  and  fervent,  but 
not  weak.  It  might  kill,  but  never  degrade  me.  I  believed  it 
then,  I  am  certain  of  it  now.  I  have  trampled  on  my  heart.  It 
has  been  crushed,  broken,  thrust  aside — but  the  love  of  that  man 
lives  there  yet.  I  struggled  against  it — tortured  my  heart  into 

7 


98  MAKYDEKWENT. 

madness — fled  with  this  clinging  love  into  the  depths  of  the 
wilderness — to  the  wilderness,  but  it  lives  here  yet — it  lives 
here  yet." 

Catharine  Montour  pressed  one  hand  upon  her  heart,  as  she 
spoke  ;  her  face  was  pallid  with  an  expression  of  unutterable 
pain.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  plead  with  the  missionary  for  pity. 

He  answered  that  appeal  with  looks  of  sorrowful  compassion. 

"  There  was  confidence  between  us  at  last  ;  each  knew  that 
the  other  suffered,  and  that  the  other  loved. 

"  I  have  said  that  Murray  was  an  honorable  man,  but  his  love 
was  a  tyrant,  or  it  would  never  have  been  expressed.  He  was  no 
tempter,  nor  was  I  one  to  be  tempted.  It  was  in  his  goodness 
that  our  strength  lay,  for  we  were  strong  and  in  every  act  of  our 
lives  faithful  to  the  duties  that  chained  us. 

"  Murray  seized  upon  this  passion  with  his  grasping  intellect, 
and  strove  to  force  it  into  friendship,  or  into  that  deceptive,  Pla 
tonic  sentiment  which  is  neither  friendship  nor  love.  My  heart 
followed  him — my  mind  kept  pace  with  his — anything  that  did 
not  separate  us,  and  which  was  not  degradation,  I  was  strong 
enough  to  endure.  We  could  not  give  up  each  other's  society  ; 
that  we  did  not  even  attempt,  for  both  felt  its  impossibility. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

STRUGGLES     AND     PENALTIES. 

"  VARNHAM  was  absent  when  our  confession  was  first  looked, 
then  breathed,  and  at  last  desperately  uttered.  He  had  been 
gone  more  than  a  week  making  preparations  for  our  return  to 
Ashton.  Had  every  action  of  our  lives  been  counted  during  that 
time,  the  most  austere  moralist  could  have  detected  no  wrong. 
The  sin  with  us  was  too  subtle  and  deep  for  human  eyes,  even 


STRUGGLES      AND      PENALTIES.  99 

for  our  own.  We  could  not  believe  that  feelings  which  had  no 
evil  wish,  might  be  in  themselves  evil.  But  when  my  husband 
returned,  the  pang  of  shame  and  regret  that  fell  upon  us  should 
have  been  proof  enough  of  wrong.  When  had  we  ever  blushed 
and  trembled  in  his  presence  before  ? 

"  We  were  alone,  Murray  and  myself,  in  the  little  boudoir  which 
I  have  mentioned  so  often.  He  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  to  which 
my  husband  had  so  tenderly  lifted  me  on  the  night  before  my 
mother's  funeral,  reading  one  of  my  favorite  Italian  poets.  I  sat 
a  little  way  off,  listening  to  the  deep,  melody  of  his  voice,  watch 
ing  the  alternate  fire  and  shadow  that  played  within  the  depths 
of  his  large  eyes,  the  clear,  bold  expression  of  his  forehead,  and 
the  smile  upon  his  lips,  which  seemed  imbued  with  the  soft 
poetry  that  dropped  in  melody  from  them. 

"  I  had  forgotten  everything  for  the  time,  and  was  lost  in  the 
first  bewildering  dream  which  follows,  with  its  delicious  quietude, 
the  entire  outpouring  of  the  soul  ;  when  thought  itself  arises  but 
as  sweet  exhalation  from  the  one  grand  passion  which  pervades 
the  whole  being  ;  when  even  a  sense  of  wrong  but  haunts  the 
heart  as  the  bee  slumbers  within  the  urn  of  a  flower,  rendered 
inert  and  stingless  by  the  wealth  of  honey  which  surrounds  it. 

"  Murray  had  been  bred  in  society,  and  could  not  so  readily 
fling  off  the  consciousness  of  our  position.  A  shadow,  darker 
than  the  words  of  his  author  warranted,  settled  on  his  brow  as 
he  read,  and  more  than  once  he  raised  h-is  eyes  from  the  page  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  fixed  them  with  a  serious  and  al 
most  melancholy  earnestness  on  my  face.  Then  I  would  inter 
rupt  his  thoughts  with  some  of  the  pleasant  words  which  love 
sends  up  from  the  full  heart,  naturally  as  song  gushes  from 
the  bosom  of  a  nightingale.  He  would  muse  a  moment  after 
this  and  resume  his  book,  allowing  his  voice  to  revel  in  the 
melody  of  the  language,  then  hurry  on  with  a  stern  and  ab 
rupt  emphasis,  as  one  who  strives  by  rapidity  of  utterance  to 
conquer  painful  thoughts. 

"  I  was  not  conscious  of  it,  but  tears  gathered  in  my  eyes 


100  MAKY     DERWENT. 

while  they  were  yet  steadfastly  fixed  on  Murray's,  and  when  he 
looked  up,  the  expression  of  my  face  must  have  told  him  some 
thing  of  what  was  passing  in  my  mind,  of  the  restlessness,  doubt, 
and  terror.  I  could  not  endure  to  see  him  look  grave.  He 
threw  down  his  book,  and  by  gentle  words,  strove  to  win  me 
again  to  cheerfulness.  He  was  murmuring  over  soft  fragments 
of  the  poem  he  had  been  reading,  resolutely  abandoning  himself 
to  the  happiness  of  the  moment,  when  there  was  a  rustling  among 
the  shrubbery  beneath  the  window,  and  quick  footsteps  smote 
along  the  gravel  walk  leading  to  the  balcony. 

"  Every  footfall  jarred  upon  my  ear  like  the  vibrations  of  a  bell. 
The  sudden  recoil  of  my  heart  was  suffocating,  then  its  deep, 
heavy  throbbings  grew  almost  audible.  I  felt  the  blood  ebbing 
away  from  my  face,  and  a  faintness  was  upon  me.  Murray  start 
ed  and  grasped  my  hand  with  a  violence  that  pained  me. 

"  '  Lady  Granby,  be  yourself,  why  do  you  tremble,  have  we 
in  wish  or  act  wronged  this  man  ?' 

"  '  No — no  ;  the  angels  of  Heaven  might  bear  us  witness — but 
I  have  a  secret  here,  and  oh,  God,  forgive  me,  I  am  not  glad  to 
see  him/ 

"  '  And  I,'  he  said,  turning  pale, '  am  I  the  cause  of  this  terror? 
— indeed,  lady,  it  is  better  that  we  part  now — this  weak 
ness — ' 

"  The  very  thought  of  his  departure  drove  me  wild,  '  I  am 
not  weak — nor  wicked  either,'  I  said  with  a  proud  smile  ;  see,  if 
I  prove  so  1' 

"  Then  wringing  my  hand  from  his  grasp,  I  deliberately  opened 
the  sash-door,  and  went  out  to  meet  my  husband.  He  was  al 
ready  upon  the  balcony,  and  sprang  forward  to  greet  me  with 
more  earger  affection  than  I  had  ever  witnessed  in  him  before. 
During  one  moment  I  was  drawn  to  his  bosom  unresistingly.  I 
was  faint  with  agitation.  He  must  have  felt  me  tremble,  but 
evidently  imputed  the  emotion  to  joy  at  his  sudden  return  ;  with 
his  arms  about  my  waist,  he  drew  me  into  the  room.  Oh,  how 
thoroughly  I  loathed  the  hypocrisy  which  one  forbidden  feeling 


STRUGGLES      AND      ? '  f,  X  A  L  1  I  E  H  - 

had  imposed  on  the  future  !  Murray  nerved  himself  for  the  in 
terview,  and  stood  up,  pale  and  collected,  to  receive  his  late 
riend.  When  he  saw  my  position,  a  faint  flush  shot  over  his 
forehead,  but  his  forced  composure  was  in  nothing  else  dis 
turbed. 

"  I  put  away  my  husband's  arm  and  sunk  to  a  seat,  overwhelm 
ed  with  a  painful  consciousness  of  the  moral  degradation  I  had 
heaped  upon  myself. 

"  Murray  went  up  to  London  on  the  next  day  ;  a  few  brief 
words  of  farewell  were  all  that  could  be  granted  me.  I  went 
away  by  myself  and  wept  bitterly.  In  my  secret  thoughts,  I 
reproached  him  that  he  could  leave  me  to  the  bitter  task  of  conceal 
ment  without  his  support,  burthened  as  he  knew  my  heart  must 
be  with  anxieties  and  feelings  which  I  might  never  reveal. 

"  From  no  other  human  being  could  I  claim  sympathy  or  coun 
sel  ;  I  felt  the  necessity  of  his  absence,  but  was  deeply  pained  by 
it.  Deceit  was  a  hard  burthen  to  impose  on  a  heart  frank  and 
confiding  like  mine.  I  felt  to  the  depths  of  my  soul  tha,t  in  this 
one  secret,  I  had  sacrificed  the  birthright  of  a  free  spirit  for 
ever.  My  very  thoughts  travelled  after  Murray  ;  he  filled  my 
whole  life.  I  gloried  in  the  voluntary  bondage  which  he  had 
imposed  upon  himself. 

"  The  society  of  my  husband  grew  wearisome,  and  yet  I  said 
again  and  again  to  myself, '  We  have  done  him  no  wrong,  this  love 
which  fills  my  heart  never  was  his — never  existed  before,  it  is  pure 
and  honorable/  As  I  said  this  my  cheek  burned  with  the  falsehood. 
Was  not  deception  itself  a  sin  !  Oh,  how  many  painful  apprehen 
sions  haunted  my  imagination.  For  two  days  I  was  tormented 
by  shadowy  evils.  My  mornings  were  full  of  inquietude,  and 
my  sleep  was  not  rest.  Then  came  his  first  letter,  so  considerate 
and  gentle,  so  full  of  manly  solicitude  for  my  peace  of  mind.  I 
flung  aside  all  doubt  and  self-distrust.  Happiness  sprung  back 
to  my  heart  like  a  glad  infant  to  its  mother's  bosom.  The  earth 
seemed  bursting  into  blossom  around  me.  Again  I  surrendered 
my  spirit  to  its  first  sweet  dream  of  contentment,  and  strove  to 


102  M  A  Ji  1£      DEKWENT. 

convince  myself  that  feelings  were  harmless  till  they  sprang  into 
evil  actions.  When  my  intellect  refused  this  sophistry,  1  reso 
lutely  cast  all  thought  aside. 

"  Murray  joined  us  at  Ashton.  Among  the  guests  who  spent 
Christmas  with  us,  was  a  young  lady  of  refined  and  pleasant 
manners,  the  orphan  of  a  noble  family,  whose  entailed  property 
had  fallen  to  a  distant  heir  on  the  death  of  her  father.  Thus 
she  was  left  almost  penniless,  dependent  on  a  wealthy  aunt,  who 
seemed  anxious  to  get  rid  of  her  trust  with  as  little  expense  as 
possible. 

"  My  sympathy  was  excited  in  the  young  lady's  behalf,  for  her 
coarse  relative  supplied  her  but  sparingly  with  the  means  of  sup 
porting  her  station  in  society,  and  in  her  vulgar  eagerness  to 
have  the  poor  girl  settled  and  off  her  hands,  was  continually 
compromising  her  delicacy  and  wounding  her  pride. 

"  Louisa  was  reserved,  and  somewhat  cold  in  her  disposition, 
but  my  feelings  had  been  enlisted  in  her  behalf,  and  I  contrived  by 
every  little  stratagem  in  my  power,  to  supply  her  want  of  wealth, 
and  to  shield  her  from  the  match-making  schemes  of  her  aunt. 

"Being  much  in  my  society,  she  was  thrown  into  constant 
companionship  with  Muiray.  He  did  not  at  first  seem  interested 
in  her,  for  she  was  retiring  and  not  really  beautiful,  but  by  de 
grees  the  gentle  sweetness  of  her  character  won  its  way  to  his 
heart,  and  he  seemed  pleased  with  her  society,  but  there  was 
nothing  in  the  intimacy  to  alarm  me.  I  was  rather  gratified  than 
otherwise  that  he  should  be  interested  in  my  protegee. 

"  When  we  again  took  up  our  residence  in  town,  I  occasion 
ally  acted  as  chaperon  to  Miss  Jameson,  but  as  my  hope  center 
ed  more  trustfully  around  one  object,  my  taste  for  general  society 
diminished,  and  I  surrounded  myself  with  a  small  circle  of  dis 
tinguished  individuals,  and  mingled  but  little  in  the  dissipations 
of  the  world,  where  her  aunt  was  continually  forcing  her  to  ex 
hibit  herself.  I  was  still  interested  in  her,  but  the  repulsive 
coarseness  of  her  relative  prevented  a  thorough  renewal  of  the 
intimacy  which  had  existed  while  she  was  yet  my  guest. 


THE      STOLEN      VISIT.  103 

11 A  year  passed  by,  in  which  had  been  crowded  a  whole  life  of 
mingled  happiness  and  misery,  a  dreamy  tumultuous  year,  that 
had  been  one  long  struggle  to  preserve  the  love  which  had  be 
come  a  portion  of  my  soul,  and  to  maintain  that  integrity  of 
thought  and  deed,  without  which  life  would  be  valueless.  My 
love  for  Murray  was  in  no  way  diminished,  but  its  character  had 
changed.  The  first  sweet  dream  of  happiness  which  came  with 
the  early  outpouring  of  my  heart,  had  departed  forever.  A  set 
tled  foreboding  of  separation  and  evil  had  chastened  my  expec 
tations,  and  instead  of  looking  forward  with  hope,  my  spirit  gra 
dually  gathered  up  its  strength  to  meet  its  destined  fate  when 
ever  it  might  come. 

"  Love  is  almost  intuitive  in  its  perceptions.  Long  before  I 
had  any  proof,  I  felt  that  Murray  was  changed.  He  strove  to 
deceive  me — strove  to  deceive  himself ;  but  the  very  means  which 
he  took  to  delude  away  the  reason  of  both,  served  to  fasten  the 
truth  upon  my  heart.  I  had  made  his  nature  a  study,  and  when 
I  saw  him  day  by  day  becoming  more  respectful,  more  gentle 
and  compassionate  in  his  manner  towards  me,  I  knew  that  there 
would  soon  be  no  hope.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  turn  rudely 
and  crush  the  being  who  loved  him  ;  but  what  mattered  it  how 
the  steel  was  tempered,  so  long  as  the  blade  struck  home  ? 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE      STOLEN      VISIT. 

"  THE  blow  fell  at  length  ;  Murray  was  about  to  be  married. 
He  did  not  allow  mo  to  be  tortured  by  public  rumor,  but  came 
and  told  me  with  his  own  lips. 

"  I  had  been  very  sad  all  the  morning,  and  when  I  heard 


104:  MAKY      DEE  WENT. 

his  familiar  knock  at  the  street  door,  and  the  footsteps 
to  which  my  heart  had  never  yet  failed  to  thrill,  approach 
ing  my  boudoir,  a  dark  presentiment  fell  upon  me,  and  I 
trembled  as  if  a  death-watch  was  sounding  in  my  ears.  But  I 
had  learned  to  conceal  my  feelings,  and  sat  quietly  in  my 
cushioned  chair,  occupied  with  a  piece  of  fine  needle-work,  when 
he  entered. 

"  He  was  deeply  agitated,  and  his  hand  shook  violently  when  I 
arose  to  receive  him.  Mine  was  steady.  I  was  not  about  to 
heap  misery  on  the  heart  that  had  clung  to  me.  He  spoke  of 
those  days  at  the  parsonage  ;  of  the  dreams,  those  impossible 
dreams,  out  of  which  we  were  to  win  happiness,  innocent  happi 
ness  to  ourselves — a  happiness  that  should  wrong  no  one,  and 
yet  fill  our  whole  lives.  He  spoke  of  it  all  as  a  dream — a  sad, 
mocking  delusion,  which  was  like  feeding  the  soul  on  husks.  It 
was  in  vain,  he  said,  to  deceive  ourselves  longer  ;  the  love  which 
had  existed — he  did  not  say  still  existed — between  us,  must  inevi 
tably  perish  under  the  restraints  which  honor  and  conscience 
imposed.  We  were  sure  of  nothing,  not  even  of  those  brief 
moments  of  social  intercourse  which  society  allows  to  those  who 
have  no  secret  feelings  to  conceal. 

"  I  lifted  my  hand.  Why  listen  to  these  arguments  ?  Had  I 
not  felt  the  cruelty  of  this  bondage  ?  and  yet  how  impossible  it 
was  for  me  to  cast  it  off.  He  was  a  man,  and  had  more  strength, 
unoccupied  energies,  and  a  broader  field  of  action,  from  which 
this  ill-fated  passion  kept  him  back.  But  I  would  not  think  of 
this  ;  one  reason  alone  presented  itself  to  my  mind — he  had 
ceased  to  love  me.  The  restraints  of  our  position  had  worn  out 
his  patience.  He  was  ready  to  leave  me  forever,  and  for  whom  ? 

"  With  an  intuition  born  of  the  pain  he  had  inflicted,  I  felt  cer 
tain  that  Murray  had  resolved  on  some  decisive  step,  and  would 
forge  new  ties  and  another  destiny  for  himself.  Perhaps  even 
then  his  heart  was  filled  by  another. 

"  The  uplifting  of  my  hand  had  silenced  him.  He  stood  before 
me  very  pale,  with  locked  features,  and  eyes  glittering  with  pain. 


THE      STOLEN      VISIT.  105 

"  I  neither  expostulated  nor  reasoned,  but  with  a  calmness 
which  startled  even  myself,  I  inquired  the  name  of  my  rival. 

"  It  was  Louisa  Jameson,  the  creature  whom  I  had  cherished 
even  as  a  sister.  No  matter,  I  had  nerved  myself  to  bear  all. 
If  my  heart  trembled,  no  emotion  stirred  my  face.  He  had  not 
yet  proposed,  but  he  knew  that  she  loved  him,  and  her  position 
was  one  to  excite  his  compassion.  She  was  so  helpless  and 
gentle  ;  the  time  must  come,  he  knew,  when  we  would  regard 
each  other  as  sisters.  This  marriage  would  help  us  both  to  for 
get  the  past.  Still  he  would  not  propose  unless  I  consented. 
He  had  come  to  throw  himself  on  my  generosity. 

"  I  did  consent.  Measuredly  and  coldly  the  words  were  spoken, 
but  they  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  would  have  me  feel  willing — • 
his  happiness  should  not  be  secured  at  the  expense  of  mine,  if 
from  my  whole  heart  I  could  not  resign  him.  No  advantage 
should  be  taken  of  a  freedom  rendered  only  from  the  lips. 

"  There  was  bitterness  in  my  heart  that  kept  up  its  strength, 
for  his  words  seemed  like  mockery.  He  had  flung  me  to  the 
dust,  and  asked  me  to  smile  while  his  foot  was  trampling  me 
there.  I  tried  to  dissemble;  why  should  I  show  him  the  ruin  he 
was  making  ?  would  it  take  back  the  words  he  had  spoken  ? 
would  he  love  me  again  ?  Could  I  love  him  ?  Never.  There 
was  nothing  of  hate  or  dislike,  scarcely  indignation,  in  my  heart — 
certainly  no  wish  for  vengeance  ;  but  I  would  have  been  torn  to 
atoms  by  wild  horses,  rather  than  have  let  him  see  how  much  I 
suffered.  I  would  have  dropped  dead  at  his  feet,  could  that  have 
convinced  him  that  I,  too,  had  ceased  to  love,  and  had  bowed 
before  the  cold  reason  which  had  conquered  him. 

"My  heart  was  like  a  rock,  hardened  with  pride  and 
agony. 

"  Oh,  how  calm  I  was  after  he  left  me  !  I  took  up  that 
piece  of  fine  needlework,  and  finished  the  pattern  neatly, 
very  neatly ;  my  fingers  never  quivered  for  an  instant  ;  the  needle 
went  in  and  out  rapidly  ;  its  glitter  dazzled  my  sight,  yet  I 
worked  on,  faster  and  faster,  till  the  muslin  dropped  from  my 


106  MARY      DERWENT. 

hands.  I  had  no  power  to  take  it  up,  but  sat  there  helplessly 
gazing  on  it. 

"  For  three  whole  hours,  I  remained  numb  and  still.  At  last, 
my  maid  came  to  remind  me  of  a  ball  and  supper  to  which  I  was 
engaged. 

"  I  arose,  and  bade  her  array  me  in  my  gayest  apparel.  Never 
do  I  remember  myself  so  beautiful  as  on  that  night.  There  was 
fever  in  my  cheek,  the  fire  of  a  tortured  spirit — a  wild,  sparkling 
wit  flashed  from  my  lips,  and  among  the  gay  and  the  lovely 
I  was  most  gay  and  most  recklessly  brilliant. 

"  I  was  among  the  last  of  the  revelers,  when  I  sprang  to  my 
carriage,  waving  kisses  to  my  noble  escort,  and  was  whirled 
away  amid  the  light  of  attendant  flambeaux.  There  was  many 
a  heart  that  envied  the  beautiful  and  happy  Lady  Granby. 
Why  not  ?  Did  they  see  the  sudden  recoil  of  that  overtasked 
spirit,  or  follow  me  home  to  witness  dark  shadows  gather  around 
the  eyes  they  had  admired,  and  the  hollow  whiteness  of  my 
cheek,  when  the  glittering  raiment  had  been  removed  from  my 
form,  and  the  flowers  unwreathed  from  my  hair  ?  They  never 
dreamed  of  the  sharp  pain  that  shot  through  my  side,  nor  saw 
the  red  blood-drops  springing  to  my  lips  as  I  lay  tremblimg  and 
exhausted  on  the  floor  of  my  dressing-room,  while  my  frightened 
attendant  bathed  my  temples  and  wept  over  me.  All  were 
deceived,  even  Murray,  for  he  was  at  the  ball.  It  was  no  pale, 
forlorn  creature  that  he  saw  there,  but  a  proud  woman  radiant 
with  diamonds,  queenly  from  the  homage  which  she  excited  and 
received.  Varnham  was  down  at  Ashton,  and  the  relief  of  soli 
tude,  at  least,  was  at  my  command. 

"  Murray  called  in  the  morning,  for  we  were  to  be  friends  still. 
I  had  suffered  much  during  the  night,  but  I  put  rouge  on  my 
pallid  cheeks,  and  with  forced  cheerfulness  went  down  to 
receive  him.  He  appeared  ill  at  ease.  Perhaps  he  feared 
reproaches  after  I  recovered  from  the  first  effect  of  his  desertion, 
but  the  anguish  it  had  wrought  was  too  deep  for  tears  or  weak 
complaints  ;  when  the  death-blow  conies,  we  cease  to  struggle. 


THE      STOLEN      VISIT.  107 

"  Men  are  willing  to  believe  that  which  they  most  desire,  and 
Murray  readily  persuaded  himself  that  my  outward  appearance 
of  contentment  was  real :  that  wounded  pride  and,  perhaps,  a 
passing  disappointment,  was  all  he  had  to  reproach  himself  with 
inflicting.  He  seemed  relieved  and  really  grateful ;  we  should 
yet  be  very  happy,  he  said.  The  fortitude  with  which  I  had 
consented  to  his  union  with  my  friend,  had  ensured  his  respect 
forever.  I  should  henceforth  be  to  him  as  a  very  dear  sister  ;  to 
Louisa,  a  generous  friend. 

"  Murray  was  sincere  in  all  this  ;  he  resolutely  deceived  himself 
into  a  belief  of  his  own  wishes.  I  went  through  the  scene 
bravely;  no  word  or  look  betrayed  the  agony  forced  back  to  the 
solitude  of  my  own  bosom.  I  had  no  weak,  feminine  wish  that 
he  should  be  appalled  by  the  pain  he  had  inflicted. 

"  I  ascertained  that  Miss  Jameson's  aunt  had  refused  to  bestow 
a  fortune  with  her  niece,  and  I  knew  that  Murray  was  far,  far 
from  wealthy  enough  to  meet  the  expenses  of  an  establishment 
befitting  his  rank.  I  could  not  bear  that  his  fine  mind  should  be 
cramped  by  the  petty  annoyances  of  a  limited  income,  nor  his  wife 
forever  crushed  beneath  the  humiliating  consciousness  of  poverty. 
Yarnham  never  allowed  himself  to  exceed  his  own  little  income, 
and  the  revenues  of  the  Granby  estates  far  exceeded  our  general 
expenditure.  It  was  therefore  easy  for  me  to  raise  a  sum 
sufficient  to  endow  my  rival,  and  thus  indirectly  secure  a  com 
petence  to  him. 

11 1  gave  orders  to  my  agent  that  twenty  thousand  pounds 
should  be  immediately  raised  for  me.  When  the  sum  was 
secured,  I  went  privately  to  the  house  of  my  rival,  and,  with  lit 
tle  persuasion,  induced  her  parsimonious  relative  to  present  it  to 
Miss  Jameson,  as  the  gift  of  her  own  generosity.  I  knew  that 
my  secret  was  safe,  for  she  was  a  worldly  woman,  and  was  not 
likely  to  deprive  herself  of  the  eclat  of  a  generous  deed,  by  expos 
ing  my  share  in  it. 

"  There  was  something  in  the  performance  of  this  act  which 
softened  my  feelings,  and  when  I  left  the  old  lady's  apartment, 


108  M  A  Ii  Y     D  E  K  W  E  N  T  . 

and  descended  the  stairs,  it  was  with  a  gentler  and  more  resigned 
sensation  than  I  had  known  for  days.  The  sound  of  a  horse 
stopping  upon  the  pavement,  made  me  start  back  like  a  guilty 
thing.  The  drawing-room  door  was  ajar,  and  I  saw  Louisa  Jameson 
rise  from  her  seat  and  glide  to  a  window,  her  eyes  sparkling,  and 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  expectation.  A  quick,  double  knock,  and 
Murray  entered.  He  gave  his  hat  carelessly  to  a  servant,  as  one 
who  had  a  right  to  claim  instant  attendance  ;  then  I  saw  his 
eyes  kindle,  and  an  answering  smile  greet  hers  when  his  affianced 
bride  came  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  I  drew  back  upon  the  stairs,  faint  with  the  heavy  throb 
bing  of  my  heart  ;  I  heard  their  low  voices  mingle,  saw  their 
hands  clasp,  and  their  lips  meet.  I  saw  him  draw  her  gently  to 
a  sofa,  and  then  my  eyes  grew  dim.  I  felt  that  I  was  fainting, 
but  had  yet  power  over  the  anguish  that  tortured  me.  I  was 
obliged  to  support  myself  by  the  bannister,  but  made  my  way 
unobserved  into  the  street.  They  were  too  happily  occupied  for 
notice  of  the  wretched  woman  who  had  thus  exposed  her  heart 
to  another  blow,  that  she  might  do  them  a  service. 

"  His  saddle-horse,  the  same  that  had  borne  him  to  my  door 
almost  every  morning  for  a  year,  stood  upon  the  pavement.  It 
was  a  noble  beast,  and  had  been  the  companion  of  our  rides  at 
Ashton.  My  own  favorite  horse  had  been  purchased  to  match 
him.  I  was  on  foot,  without  attendant,  and  wore  a  large  close 
bonnet,  that  none  might  recognize  me  near  the  house  of  my  rival, 
but  the  sagacious  creature  knew  me  spite  of  this  disguise.  He 
began  to  paw  the  stones,  and  curved  his  head  round  with  a  low, 
whimpering  neigh,  as  I  passed  by.  How  soothingly  any  token 
of  attachment,  even  from  the  lowliest  animal,  goes  to  a  desolate 
heart.  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse,  but  turned  back  and 
patted  the  beautiful  animal's  neck,  as  I  have  been  wont  to  do  in 
happier  days. 

"  '  Have  a  care,  miss/  said  the  man  who  held  him,  '  he  is  apt  to 
be  skittish  with  strangers.  I  never  saw  but  one  lady  that  was 
not  afraid  of  him.' 


THE      WEDDING      FESTIVAL.  109 

" l  And  wlio  was  that  T  I  inquired,  gathering  the  thick  veil 
more  closely  over  my  face. 

"  '  Oh,  the  Lady  Granby,  God  bless  her  ;  I  should  like  to  see 
the  horse  she  could  not  manage.  Bluebuck  was  always  like 
a  lamb  when  she  was  near,  and  would  snuff  round  and  eat  bread 
from  her  little  white  hand  as  daintily  as  a  lap-dog  Why  !' — 

"  '  John/  said  a  voice  from  the  window, '  you  may  take  Bluebuck 
away.  I  shall  walk  home/ 

"  I  grasped  my  veil  tighter,  and  hurried  forward  as  if  caught 
in  some  disgraceful  act.  A  moment  after,  the  groom  galloped  by 
me,  nodding  and  smiling  with  a  freedom  which  my  own  fami 
liarity  had  warranted.  This  act,  in  itself,  was  sufficient  proof 
that  I  was  unknown,  but  the  proud  blood  mounted  to  my  cheek, 
and  I  felt  as  if  his  servant  had  offered  me  an  indignity — as  if  I 
should  never  be  respected  or  loved  again. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE     WEDDING     FESTIVAL. 

"  I  ENTERED  that  house  once  again,  to  see  the  man  whom  I 
could  never  cease  to  love,  wedded  to  another.  The  pang  with 
which  I  received  the  invitation  to  that  wedding  was  keener  than 
any  pain  death  will  bring — but  I  gave  no  tokens  of  the  anguish 
that  consumed  me.  It  was  strange,  but  I  felt  a  kind  of  gladiator's 
pleasure  in  goading  my  heart  on  to  madness — a  stern,  unrelent 
ing  love  of  self-torture.  I  resolved  to  be  present  at  the  marriage. 

"  I  strove  to  rest,  but  could  not.  In  vain  I  loosened  the 
golden  cords  and  darkened  my  sumptuous  couch  with  its  wealth 
of  drapery.  In  vain  I  heaped  its  pillows  of  down,  and  drew  the 
sheets  of  fine  linen  over  my  head.  The  pain  rankling  in  my  heart 
would  not  be  appeased.  Still  I  sought  for  rest.  Should  I  go 


110  MARY      DKKWENT, 

with  my  sunken  eyes  and  pallid  looks  to  his  wedding  festival  ? — 
and  that  to  come  on  the  morrow  ?  Sleep — sleep,  I  must  have  sleep, 
for  smiles  and  bloom  would  be  wanted  on  the  coming  day  ;  after 
that,  I  cared  not  ;  for  it  seemed  as  if  my  destiny  would  be  con 
summated  then. 

"  I  went  to  my  dressing-table  and  poured  out  laudanum,  a 
large  quantity;  but  some  was  shed  over  the  table,  for  my  hand  shook 
as  I  emptied  the  vial.  I  cared  not  if  the  sleep  it  brought  should 
prove  eternal.  The  cup  was  of  gold  from  which  I  drank  the  po 
tion,  and  its  jewelled  rim  sparkled  in  the  flame  of  my  night-lamp, 
as  I  raised  it  to  my  lips.  I  would  have  given  it  with  all  the  vast 
wealth  from  which  it  had  been  purchased,  for  one  hour  of  sweet, 
calm  slumber.  But  it  could  not  be  ;  a  heavy  sense  of  suffering 
settled  upon  my  frame,  and  that  was  all.  My  body  became 
stupid,  but  there  was  no  oblivion  to  the  intense  workings  of  the 
mind. 

"  The  morning  found  me  in  my  dressing-room,  buried  in  the 
velvet  depths  of  an  easy-chair,  with  my  eyes  wide  open,  as  they 
had  been  the  whole  night.  A  dressing-mirror  swung  on  its  stand 
before  me,  and  an  image,  which  I  shuddered  to  recognize  as  the 
reflection  of  myself,  seemed  watching  my  wretchedness  with  sad, 
heavy  eyes,  that  would  not  close.  I  buried  my  face  in  my  dress, 
that  I  might  not  be  haunted  by  the  picture  of  my  own  misery, 
for  I  had  no  strength  to  wheel  the  chair  away,  or  remove  the 
mirror. 

"  I  must  have  slept  awhile,  for  when  I  raised  my  face  again, 
broad  sunshine  was  streaming  through  the  window-drapery,  and 
a  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  beat  nine. 

"  In  one  hour  he  was  to  be  married. 

"  I  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  that  my  dress  should  be  as 
splendid  as  possible,  but  took  no  further  note  of  the  costly  robes 
which  my  bewildered  maid  brought  out  for  my  choice.  I  gave 
directions,  but  abandoned  myself  wholly  to  her  taste,  not  caring 
that  the  splendor  in  which  she  arrayed  me  was  little  befitting  the 
early  hour,  so  long  as  it  shed  life  over  the  deathly  hue  of  my  fea- 


THE      WEDDING      FESTIVAL.  Ill 

tares.  She  had  spoken  to  me  more  than  once,  but  I  gave  no  answer, 
only  exclaiming  sharply  from  time  to  time,  'hasten — hasten — 
no  matter  if  the  gems  do  gird  my  forehead.  Set  them  even,  but 
hasten.7  My  eyes  were  fixed  all  the  time  on  the  clock,  whose 
pointer  had  crept  round  the  dial,  and  almost  touched  the  hour. 

"  '  Hasten,  quick — quick,'  I  almost  shrieked,  starting  up. 

"  But  my  toilet  was  not  completed  ;  she  held  me  by  the  arm, 
unlocked  a  slender  band  of  chased  gold  from  my  arm,  and  flung  it 
carelessly  aside  to  make  room  for  the  magnificent  bracelet  which 
she  had  drawn  from  its  casket.  I  dashed  the  glittering  bauble 
from  her  hold,  and  seized  upon  the  precious  circlet  with  a  shaking 
hand,  which  refused  to  lock  it  on  my  wrist  again.  That  bracelet 
was  his  gift.  It  had  never  left  my  arm  since  his  hands  had 
placed  it  there.  It  maddened  me  that  its  clasp  should  have 
been  undone  by  a  menial,  and  on  that  day. 

11 1  gave  one  glance  at  the  mirror  before  I  went  out.  Excite 
ment  had  begun  its  work  of  beauty  ;  a  startling  brilliancy  was 
in  my  eyes,  and  a  feverish  red  bloomed  in  either  cheek.  My 
terrified  Frenchwoman  had  performed  her  task  bravely.  Jewels 
flashed  in  my  hair,  and  shed  a  starry  brightness  over  my  arms 
and  neck  ;  my  poor  heart  trembled,  like  a  wounded  bird,  beneath 
a  girdle  that  might  have  won  a  prince's  ransom.  Oh,  it  was  all 
a  sad,  sad  mockery  ! 

"  Like  the  stricken  deer  which  still  bounds  on  and  on,  though 
the  arrow  is  rankling  in  his  side,  I  mingled  among  the  crowd  of 
high-born  guests  invited  to  Murray's  wedding.  Oh,  how  strange 
everything  seemed  1  The  murmuring  sound  of  happy  and  pleasant 
voices  was  in  my  ear  ;  feathers,  and  diamonds,  and  glittering 
satins  floated  confusedly  before  me,  and  it  all  appeared  like  a 
phantasmagoria. 

"  Then  my  sight  cleared,  and  my  hearing  became  keen,  for 
there  was  a  hush  in  the  throng,  and  a  stately  noble  came  fortli 
with  the  young  bride  leaning  on  his  arm.  I  saw  the  changing 
of  her  soft  cheek  beneath  the  bridal  veil,  and  the  happy  light  of 
her  eye  as  they  led  her  before  the  bishop.  A  moment,  and  he 


112  MAKY      DEE  WENT. 

stood  by  her  side.  The  hurried  words  of  his  response  came  dis 
tinctly  to  my  ear,  and  the  voice  was  that  which  had  been  the 
music  of  my  life.  Those  words  consigned  me  to  utter,  utter 
wretchedness. 

"  That  man  had  loved  me,  yet  I  stood  within  a  few  paces  of 
him,  ill  with  grief,  and  so  wretched  that  the  very  beggars  in 
the  streets  might  have  pitied  me,  while  he  made  his  solemn  vows 
to  another,  and  did  not  feel  my  presence.  The  guests  gathered 
about  the  newly-wedded  pair,  and  the  sound  of  their  congratula 
tions  came  mockingly  to  me,  where  I  sat  alone  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  room. 

"  Sorrow  had  nearly  bereft  me  of  all  my  strength  ;  I  could  not 
move,  though  I  felt  that  curious  eyes  might  speculate  upon  me, 
sitting  thus  apart  and  agitated.  I  struggled  for  a  moment's 
energy,  and  penetrated  the  crowd.  The  moment  my  eyes  rested 
on  his  face,  and  saw  the  proud,  happy  smile  and  kindling  eye,  I 
became  calm,  very  calm,  for  pride  was  yet  strong  within  me. 
Had  that  triumphant  smile  lingered  one  moment  on  his  lips  after 
he  saw  me,  my  congratulations  would  have  been  careless  as  the 
rest.  But  when  he  turned  from  the  greeting  of  a  fair  girl  by 
his  side,  and  saw  me  standing  before  him,  his  brow  and  lip 
became  colorless,  and  he  recoiled  as  if  a  spirit  from  the  dead 
had  started  up  in  his  path.  One  glance  revealed  the  ruin  he 
had  made,  for  with  all  my  mastery  over  the  agony  struggling 
within,  it  must  have  forced  its  impress  on  my  face.  It  was  a 
dangerous  moment  for  us  both,  for  many  curious  eyes  were  upon 
us.  I  heeded  it  not  ;  life  or  good  name  was  nothing  to  me 
then.  He  grasped  the  hand  which  I  had  extended  with  a  force 
that  thrilled  back  to  my  heart.  He  saw  that  my  lips  moved 
without  syllabling  a  word,  but  he  answered,  as  if  the  usual  con 
gratulations  had  been  spoken.  I  addressed  a  few  words  to  his 
bride  ;  what  they  were,  I  do  not  remember,  but  she  smiled, 
raised  her  eyes  wonderingly  to  my  face,  and  asked  if  I  had 
been  ill. 

"  I  would  have  left  the  house  then,  for  my  unnatural  strength 


THE      WEDDING      FESTIVAL.  113 

was  giving  way,  but  the  bridal  equipage  was  drawn  up  before 
the  door,  and  my  carriage  could  not  be  called  till  it  had  driven 
off.  I  shrunk  away  to  a  window,  and  drew  the  heavy  curtains 
over  the  recess,  for  there  was  that  stirring  within  my  heart 
which  would  no  longer  brook  the  gaze  of  a  crowd.  I  stood 
behind  the  silken  drapery  with  my  throbbing  forehead  pressed 
against  the  casement,  and  my  hands  clasped  hard  over  my  heart, 
when  the  curtain  was  suddenly  lifted  and  Murray  stood  by  my 
side.  He  was  pale  as  death,  and  there  was  anguish,  such  as  I 
had  never  before  witnessed,  in  his  eyes.  A  moment  he  pored 
over  my  face,  while  his  own  worked  with  strong  emotion  ;  then 
grasping  my  hands  in  both  his,  he  said  in  a  whisper  of  thrilling 
reproach,  '  Oh,  Caroline  I  why  have  you  deceived  me  thus  ? 
Why  did  you  lead  me  to  believe  that  you  had  freely  consented 
to  this  ?' 

"  I  did  not  speak.  I  could  not ;  but  my  face  was  lifted  to 
his,  and  he  must  have  read  there  all  the  misery  I  was  henceforth 
to  endure.  I  did  not  strive  to  conceal  it,  for  my  pride  was  ut 
terly  crushed  ;  I  had  no  strength  left.  Footsteps  approached 
the  window — Murray  started — the  grasp  of  his  cold  hand  tight 
ened  on  mine — I  was  alone  ! 

"  There  was  a  bustle  on  the  steps.  A  white  veil  gleamed 
before  my  aching  eyes.  Then  the  form  of  the  bridegroom  ap 
peared.  His  pale  locked  face  was  raised  to  the  window  where 
I  stood  for  one  instant  ;  then  my  brain  grew  giddy  ;  I  remem 
bered  nothing  more,  save  a  flash  of  white  ribbons,  and  the  whirl 
of  a  chariot  passing  before  my  eyes  ;  then  the  tramp  of  many 
horses  seemed  smiting  me  to  the  earth.  I  did  not  faint  ;  there 
was  fever  in  my  veins,  and  that  gave  me  strength  to  endure. 

"  When  my  own  carriage  was  drawn  to  the  door,  I  went  again 
through  the  crowd  ;  a  hand  was  extended  ;  I  smiled  and  ac 
cepted  it ;  but  to  this  day  do  not  know  who  led  me  from  the 
room. 

"  I  entered  my  house.  Desolate  and  very  melancholy  it 
seemed.  There  was  none  to  feel  for  me — no  kind  voice  to  ask 


114  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

why  I  was  so  wretched.  Had  my  mother  been  alive,  I  could 
have  crept  to  her  bosom,  and,  blameless  as  she  was,  have  told  her 
all.  With  her  voice  in  my  ear,  and  my  arms  about  her  neck,  I 
could  have  melted  to  tears  ;  for  she  would  have  pitied  and  com 
forted  me.  But  she  was  in  her  cold  grave :  even  this  memory 
brought  no  moisture  to  my  eyes.  I  could  not  weep  ;  nowhere 
could  I  turn  for  sympathy.  I  had  no  mother,  no  sister,  nor 
friend.  My  pride  was  crushed,  and  I  had  no  strength  left  ;  yet 
my  heart  would  not  break. 

"  Then  I  thought  of  Varnham  for  the  first  time  in  many  days, 
not  as  the  husband  I  had  been  estranged  from,  but  as  the  kind, 
good  friend  who  had  watched  beside  me,  and  loved  me  amid  all 
my  sorrows.  I  was  not  wholly  in  my  right  mind,  and  reflected 
imperfectly  on  the  step  I  was  about  to  take.  Mr.  Varnham  was 
at  Ashton,  and  I  resolved  to  go  to  him,  but  with  no  definite  aim, 
for  I  was  incapable  of  any  fixed  plan.  But  he  was  my  only 
friend,  and  my  poor  heart  turned  back  to  him  in  its  emergency 
of  sorrow,  with  the  trust  of  former  years.  I  forgot  that  it  had 
locked  up  the  only  well-spring  of  sympathy  left  to  it,  by  the  very 
course  of  its  anguish. 

"I  flung  a  large  cloak  over  my  splendid  attire,  and  while  my 
carriage  was  yet  at  the  door,  entered  it  and  ordered  them  to 
proceed  to  Ashton.  We  travelled  all  day  ;  I  did  not  once  leave 
my  seat,  but  remained  muffled  in  my  cloak  with  the  hood  drawn 
over  my  head,  lost  in  the  misty  half-consciousness  of  partial 
insanity.  I  believe  that  the  carriage  stopped  more  than  once, 
that  food  and  rest  were  urged  on  me  by  my  servants  ;  but  I 
took  no  heed,  only  ordering  them  to  drive  forward,  for  the  rapid 
motion  relieved  me. 

"  It  was  deep  in  the  night  when  we  reached  Ashton.  Every 
thing  was  dark  and  gloomy  ;  but  one  steady  lamp  glimmered 
from  the  library  window,  and  I  knew  that  Varnham  was  up,  and 
there.  The  library  was  in  the  back  part  of  the  house,  and  the 
sound  of  the  carriage  had  not  reached  it. 

"  I  made  my  way  throngh  the  darkened  hall,  and  entered  my 


THE      WEDDING      FESTIVAL.  115 

husband's  presence.  For  one  moment  the  feverish  beating  of  my 
heart  was  hushed  by  the  holy  tranquillity  of  that  solitary  student. 
There  was  something  appalling  in  the  sombre  gloomy  magnifi 
cence  of  the  room,  in  which  he  sat.  The  noble  painted  window 
seemed  thick  and  impervious  in  the  dim  light.  The  rich  book 
cases  were  in  shadow,  and  cold  marble  statues  looked  down  from 
their  pedestals  with  a  pale,  grave-like  beauty,  as  I  entered. 

"  Varnham  was  reading.  One  small  lamp  alone  shed  its  lustre 
on  the  rare  Mosaic  table  over  which  he  bent,  and  threw  a  broad 
light  across  the  pale,  calm  forehead  which  had  something 
heavenly  in  its  tranquil  smoothness.  I  was  by  his  side,  and  yet 
he  did  not  see  me.  The  solemn  stillness  of  the  room  had  cleared 
away  my  brain,  and  for  a  moment  I  felt  the  madness  of  my 
intended  confidence.  I  staggered,  and  should  have  fallen  but  for 
the  edge  of  the  table,  which  I  grasped  with  a  force  that  made 
the  lamp  tremble. 

"  Varnham  started  up  astonished  at  my  sudden  presence  ;  but 
when  he  saw  me  standing  before  him,  with  the  fire  of  excitement 
burning  in  my  eyes  and  crimsoning  my  cheeks,  with  jewels 
twinkling  in  my  hair  and  blazing  on  my  girdle,  where  it  flashed 
out  from  the  cloak  which  my  trembling  hand  had  become  power 
less  to  hold,  he  seemed  intuitively  to  feel  the  evil  destiny  that  I 
had  wrought  for  myself.  His  face  became  pale,  and  it  was  a 
minute  before  he  could  speak.  Then  he  came  forward,  drew  me 
kindly  to  his  bosom  and  kissed  my  forehead  with  a  tenderness 
that  went  to  my  heart  like  the  hushings  of  my  mother's  voice. 
I  flung  myself  upon  his  bosom,  and  wept  with  a  burst  of  pas 
sionate  grief.  He  seated  himself,  drew  me  closer  to  his  heart, 
and  besought  me  to  tell  him  the  cause  of  my  sorrow. 

"  I  did  tell  him — and  then  he  put  me  from  his  bosom  as  if  I 
had  been  a  leper,  with  a  cry  of  rage,  bitter  rage  on  the  lips  that 
had  never  till  then  known  aught  but  blessings  ;  not  against  me — 
no,  he  could  never  have  denounced  me — but  on  Murray.  Then 
I  bethought  me  of  the  evil  that  might  follow.  I  arose  from  the 
floor  and  fell  before  him,  where  he  stood,  and  tried  to  plead  and 


116  MART      DERWENT. 

to  call  back  all  I  had  said.  He  lifted  me  again  in  his  arms, 
though  I  felt  a  tremor  run  through  his  whole  frame  as  he  did  so; 
he  told  me  to  be  comforted,  said  many  soothing  words,  and  pro 
mised  never  to  reproach  me  again,  but  he  said  nothing  of  him, 
and  when  I  again  strove  to  plead  in  his  defence,  he  put  me 
sternly  away.  Then  I  went  wholly  mad. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

DREAMS     AND     FANTASIES. 

"  WE  are  taught  to  look  with  pity  and  dread  on  the  insane, 
and  when  the  mind  takes  a  malignant  or  melancholy  character, 
perhaps  there  is  no  greater  object  of  compassion  than  a  person 
bereft  of  reason,  yet  subject  still  to  the  torment  which  caused 
his  misfortune.  But  with  me,  madness  took  a  strange  and  plea 
sant  form.  It  was  but  the  loss  of  reason  and  acuteness  of  feel 
ing,  while  the  fancy  was  left  unbridled  to  revel  at  will  among 
the  high  and  beautiful  things  of  its  own  wild  creation.  The 
realities  which  had  tortured  me  to  madness,  entirely  departed 
from  my  memory  :  I  turned  again  to  the  soft  fancies  and  pleasant 
feelings  of  childhood,  mingled  with  dreams  of  such  fantastic  and 
wild  loveliness,  that  the  time  of  my  mental  bereavement  seemed 
rather  spent  in  some  higher  and  happier  world,  than  in  the 
confines  of  my  own  domain. 

"  Almost  every  day  I  took  to  myself  some  new  form.  Some 
times  I  fancied  myself  a  nightingale,  cradling  my  nest  in  the 
boughs  of  an  acacia  that  grew  beneath  my  window.  When 
such  fantasies  held  possession  of  my  shattered  mind,  I  would 
fold  my  arms  on  my  bosom,  and  strains  of  the  wildest  and  most 
thrilling  melody  would  steal  from  my  lips,  hour  after  hour,  such 
as  must  have  exhausted  the  heart  of  any  sane  being. 


DKEAMS      AND      FANTASIES.  117 

"  When  a  strange  bird  came  fluttering  about  the  casement,  I 
would  chirp  coaxingly,  and  let  my  notes  fall  to  a  soft  liquid  flow, 
that  I  might  win  the  companionship  of  a  creature  which  seemed 
of  like  attributes  with  myself.  Even  now  I  can  remember  how 
my  heart  swelled,  and  how  my  voice  quivered  with  disappoint 
ment,  when  the  bird  looked  shily  about,  and  fluttered  away  to 
some  distant  tree,  startled,  and  yet  half  allured  by  my  effort  to 
detain  him.  At  such  times  I  would  hush  ray  voice  to  a  low, 
mournful  strain,  and  weep  and  sing  with  a  child-like  sorrow,  till 
Varnham  came  and  persuaded  me  away  to  rest — such  rest,  sweet 
and  quiet,  as  I  had  never  known  since  my  infancy. 

"  Another  time  I  would  dream  myself  a  seraph,  up  among  the 
clouds,  floating  away  with  wavy  and  pleasant  motion  through 
the  sky,  and  waiting  with  tranquillity  for  the  evening  to  come, 
that  I  might  wander  among  the  planets,  and  bathe  my  wings  in 
the  moonlight.  There  was  one  large,  bright  star  which  shone 
night  after  night,  with  a  clear,  gem-like  brilliancy  through  the 
leaves  of  my  acacia.  The  moment  it  appeared,  I  plumed  my  fan 
cied  wings,  and  shot  away  through  its  dazzling  walls  to  a  world  of 
such  happiness  as  my  perfect  mind  had  never  imagined.  I 
peopled  this  new  creation  with  shapes  of  aerial  beauty — such 
pure,  spiritual  creatures  as  haunt  the  brain  of  the  poet,  till  he 
turns  away  from  earth,  and  dwells  for  ever  with  the  children  of 
his  own  mind. 

"  With  these  I  found  companionship,  and  in  my  wild  conception 
grew  ethereal  and  lovely  in  form  and  mind,  even  as  they  were. 
Nightly  I  went  to  my  ideal  world,  and  we  sported  together — my 
sister  spirits  and  I — in  groves  where,  the  trees  formed  bowers  of 
eternal  beauty,  sheltering  basins  of  transparent  alabaster,  in 
which  the  crystal  waters  flowed  with  unceasing  melody.  Clouds 
of  heavy  foliage  gathered  in  the  atmosphere — each  leaf  a  broad 
emerald,  which  struck  against  its  fellow  with  a  soft,  bell-like 
chime,  making  the  air  melodious,  as  if  the  leaves  were  fairy  harps 
set  in  motion  by  the  breeze.  We  wandered  together,  to  and  fro, 
beneath  the  emerald  shade,  where  columns  of  heavenly  sculpture 


118  MARY      DEKWENT. 

shot  their  snowy  shafts  up  from  among  the  trees;  where  temples, 
pillared  with  jasper  and  domed  with  fluted  pearl  and  burning 
opal  stone,  stood  in  clouds  of  soft  light,  which  curled  upward  for 
ever,  with  a  continued  silvery  smoke  emitted  from  their  own  ex- 
haustless  censers. 

"  We  again  soared  upward  and  away,  shaking  the  rosy  light  from 
our  wings  as  we  flew,  now  high  in  the  mellow  atmosphere,  now  just 
skimming  the  earth.  Perchance,  we  might  stop  to  rest  on  the 
crystal  basin  of  a  fountain,  where  our  forms  were  flung  back  with  a 
thousand  rainbow  beauties,  as  we  hovered  among  the  thick  vines 
which  drooped  to  the  margin.  These  vines  were  heavy  with 
leaves,  and  with  clusters  of  blood-red  rubies  and  purple  amethysts, 
each  gem  shedding  a  light  from  its  own  burning  core  upon  the 
waters,  that  sparkled  and  laughed  in  their  bed;  then  flowed  away 
in  soft  liquid  murmurs,  towards  the  grove  we  had  left  behind. 

"  The  laws  which  regulate  earth  were  unknown  in  this  world  of 
my  wild  creation.  There  was  neither  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars,  to 
shed  down  their  light.  But  an  atmosphere  soft  and  bland  as  that 
which  broods  over  a  bed  of  water-lilies,  when  they  unfold  their 
pearly  hearts  to  the  evening  breeze,  received  a  rainbow  light  from 
the  glowing  trees,  and  the  delicate  flowers  that  burst  to  blossom 
everywhere.  This  atmosphere  floated  hazily  around  the  leaping 
cascades,  among  the  transparent  rocks,  and  high  up  on  the  distant 
mountains  that  bounded  the  sight  with  their  faint  gold  and 
billowy  purple. 

"Oh!  how  happy  I  fancied  myself  in  this  ideal  region!  How  I 
loved  to  interlace  my  wings  with  the  bright  beings  I  have  but 
faintly  described,  and  while  we  nestled  together  among  the  vines, 
or  lay  on  the  odorous  flowers,  to  whisper  to  them  of  the  things 
I  had  seen  on  earth,  of  the  sorrows  which  had  saddened  my  heart, 
and  of  the  tears  that  I  had  shed;  I  fancied  that  they  gathered 
around  me  with  expressions  of  wonder  at  the  name  of  sorrow,  like 
innocent  children  when  the  cold,  drear  grave,  and  the  unfathom 
able  mysteries  of  eternity  are  first  opened  to  their  young  minds. 
They — the  sweet  seraphs  of  my  imagination — could  not  under- 


DKEAMS      AND      FANTASIES.  119 

stand  how  affection  for  any  thing  might  be  wrong;  their  very 
being  was  love,  and  they  could  comprehend  nothing  which  was 
not  spiritual  and  holy  like  themselves. 

"  There  was  one  little  creature,  beautiful  beyond  anything  my 
wild  realm  contained.  She  never  mounted  like  the  rest,  but 
wandered  about  in  my  chamber  before  the  birds  came  to  lure 
me  off  with  their  singing.  She  was  a  loving  little  spirit,  some 
times  sorrowful  as  if  she  had  rambled  from  heaven  and  lost  her 
way.  At  other  times  full  of  gladness  and  happy  as  the  sunshine, 
Bleeping  in  the  acacia,  she  would  climb  to  my  bed  and  wind  her 
arms  around  my  neck  as  if  to  hold  me  down  from  the  clouds, 
to  which  she,  poor  thing,  could  never  mount. 

"  Try  as  I  would,  she  always  kept  close  to  the  earth.  I  longed 
to  take  her  with  me  when  I  fled  to  the  stars ;  for,  with  her  pale 
golden  hair  and  those  soft  blue  eyes,  she  was  far  more  lovely  than 
all  the  heavenly  children  I  met  with.  One  day — oh,  how  well  I  re 
member  it,  for  even  in  my  darkened  mind  it  left  an  impression  which 
returning  reason  took  up  with  bitter  anguish — this  pretty  creature 
came  into  my  chamber  looking  so  happy.  The  skirt  of  her  mus 
lin  frock  was  full  of  flowers  that  dropped  around  her  tiny  feet  as 
she  walked.  She  had  gathered  these  flowers  from  the  garden 
under  my  window;  I  had  been  watching  her  as  she  fluttered  to 
and  fro,  waving  my  hand  when  she  waved  hers,  echoing  her  sweet 
childish  shout  and  beckoning  her  to  fly  upwards  with  the  birds 
who  fluttered  around  my  casement.  At  last  she  came,  bringing 
a  fragrant  load  of  blossoms.  It  was  near  sunset,  and  I  was 
seated  by  the  window.  A  shower  had  just  fallen,  and  masses 
of  white  clouds  caught  gleams  of  purple  and  gold  as  they 
floated  to  the  west.  Just  as  the  child  came  in  a  rainbow  sprang 
across  the  zenith,  and  lost  itself  in  this  embankment  of  clouds. 

I  was  glad  from  the  depths  of  my  heart.  This  was  the  first  time 
the  angels  had  flung  out  a  bridge  for  me;  I  knew  why  they  had 
done  it  now.  The  little  earth  cherub  had  never  flown  from  the 
ground.  They  had  provided  this  glittering  arch,  that  I  might 
lead  her  across  it  to  our  star  revels.  I  clasped  my  hands  with 


120  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

joy.  She  came  in  huddling  up  the  blossoms  to  her  bosom  with 
both  arms,  and  laughing  amid  their  perfume.  I  stooped  forward 
and  kissed  her,  feeling  for  her  wings  with  my  hands.  She  dropped 
the  skirt  of  her  dress,  and  kneeling  down  among  the  falling  roses, 
cried  out: 

"  '  Oh,  joy,  joy!  she  has  kissed  me!  she  has  kissed  me.'  Then 
up  she  started,  and  would  have  run  away  clapping  her  hands,  and 
looking  so  proud  and  happy. 

"  I  sprang  after  her,  '  come,  come,'  I  said,  '  go  with  me  to  the 
stars,  my  angels  have  built  us  a  bridge  of  jewels;  buried  deep  iu 
yon  clouds  we  shall  find  the  golden  cup.  It  shall  be  yours.  When 
the  crystal  fountains  of  the  upper  heavens  are  unsealed,  you  and 
I  will  drink  of  their  waters  and  become  immortal.  Come,  little 
one,  come  and  tread  that  winding  path  with  these  little  feet.' 

"  She  threw  her  arms  around  my  neck,  and  kissed  me  fondly 
as  I  carried  her  to  the  window.  I  rent  the  little  white  mantle 
that  she  wore  in  equal  parts,  and  fluttered  the  fragments  out 
over  each  shoulder,  while  she  stood  upon  the  broad  stone  sill, 
smiling  in  my  face,  pleasing  myself  that  she  had  wings  at  last. 

"  '  There,'  I  said,  exultant,  as  this  visionary  plumage  began 
to  nutter  in  the  wind,  '  go — go  and  tell  the  angels  I  am  com 
ing  !' 

"  She  turned  her  beautiful  head  over  one  shoulder,  and  looked 
down.  The  flower  garden  was  far  beneath  us,  and  she  began  to 
tremble. 

"  '  No,  no,'  I  said  sternly,  as  she  stretched  forth  her  arms  ; 
'  God  gives  his  angels  wings — for  you  he  has  done  more.  Be 
hold  !  the  rainbow  is  fading  even  now  !' 

"  I  was  terrified  lest  the  arch  should  break  away,  and  pushed 
her  toward  it  ;  but  she  clung  to  me,  shrieking  with  affright. 
Then  a  gust  of  wind  swept  by,  scattering  her  golden  hair  abroad, 
and  seizing  upon  her  garments.  That  wind  would  bear  her  up  ; 
it  was  sent  by  the  angels  for  that  purpose.  I  forced  her  arms 
from  my  neck;  I  stifled  her  cries  with  my  palm,  and  thrust  her 
forth,  looking  upward  to  see  her  ascend. 


DREAMS      AND      FANTASIES.  121 

"  A  cry,  a  dull  fall,  and  then  dead  silence.  I  was  very  sorrow 
ful  that  she  would  not  rise,  and,  when  the  rainbow  melted  away, 
wept  bitterly  ;  nor  would  I  visit  the  stars  that  night,  but  filled 
the  house  with  my  wails,  clamoring  for  my  earth-cherub,  till,  in 
order  to  appease  my  grief,  they  brought  her  into  my  room  and 
laid  her  before  me.  Snow  was  not  whiter  than  that  beautiful 
face.  Her  hair  was  stained  with  blood  ;  a  broad  purple  mark 
spread  up  from  her  shoulder.  She  was  dead — dead  ! 

"  There  was  no  more  heaven  for  me  after  that.  I  never 
thought  of  the  angels  without  a  shudder — never  heard  the  night 
ingales  sing  without  shrieks  of  pain.  The  sunset  clouds  became 
billows  of  flame,  and  the  sight  of  a  rainbow  froze  the  blood  in 
my  veins. 

"  It  was,  perhaps,  this  great  shock  which  brought  back  my 
reason,  for  afterwards  my  old  life  came  slowly  back,  each 
memory  bringing  its  own  pain. 

"  I  can  never  describe  the  cold,  hopeless  struggle  of  my  heart 
to  retain  the  delusions  which  haunted  my  insane  moments,  when 
my  intellect  began  to  resume  its  functions.  It  seemed  as  if  some 
cruel  spirit  were  gradually  tightening  the  bonds  of  earth  about 
me,  and  ruthlessly  dragging  me  back  to  reason,  while  my  spirit 
clung  with  intense  longing  to  its  own  wild  ideal. 

"  It  was  a  sad,  sad  night  to  me,  when  that  star  arose  in  the 
sky,  and  sent  its  pure  beams  down  to  the  bosom  of  my  acacia, 
and  I  knew  that  the  clear  orb  would  henceforth  be  to  me  only  a 
star — that  the  realms  which  I  had  located  in  its  distant  bosom, 
were  but  the  dream  of  a  diseased  fancy,  that  would  return  no 
more  with  its  beautiful  and  vivid  faith,  which  had  no  power  to 
reason  or  doubt. 

"  But  we  can  force  the  fantasies  of  a  mind  no  more  than 
the  affections  of  the  heart.  My  disease  left  me  ;  then  the  pas 
sions  and  aspirations  of  my  old  nature  started  up,  one  after  an 
other,  like  marble  statues  over  which  a  midnight  blackness  had 
fallen.  And  there  in  the  midst,  more  firmly  established  than 
ever,  his  image  remained — his  name,  his  being,  and  the  sad  his- 


122 


MAEY      DEKWENT. 


tory  of  my  own  sufferings,  had,  for  one  whole  year,  been  to  me 
but  as  an  indefinite  and  painful  dream.  But  sorrow,  and  insan 
ity  itself,  had  failed  to  uproot  the  love  which  had  led  to 
such  misery.  Can  I  be  blamed  that  I  prayed  for  insensibility 


CHAPTEK   XIX. 

THE    LOST   YEAR. 

"  VARNHAM  had  watched  me  for  one  year,  as  a  mother  guards 
her  wayward  child.  But  a  few  days  before  the  death  of  my 
earth-cherub,  the  sudden  illness  of  a  near  relative  forced  him 
from  his  guardianship.  In  my  wildest  moments  I  had  always 
been  gentle  and  submissive,  but  I  was  told  that  he  left  me 
with  much  reluctance  to  the  care  of  my  own  maid,  the  house 
keeper,  and  my  medical  attendant.  They  loved  me,  and  he 
knew  that  with  them  I  should  be  safe.  When  I  began  to  ques 
tion  them  of  what  had  passed  during  my  confinement,  they  ap 
peared  surprised  by  the  quietness  and  regularity  of  my  speech, 
but  were  ready  to  convince  themselves  that  it  was  only  one  of 
the  fitful  appearances  of  insanity  which  had  often  deceived  them 
during  my  illness.  They,  however,  answered  me  frankly,  and 
with  the  respect  which  Varnham  had  ever  enjoined  upon  them, 
even  when  he  supposed  that  I  could  neither  understand  nor  re 
sent  indignity. 

"  They  told  me,  that  on  the  night  of  my  arrival  at  Ashton,  they 
were  all  summoned  from  their  beds  by  a  violent  ringing  of  the 
library  bell  ;  when  they  entered,  my  husband  was  forcibly  hold 
ing  me  in  his  arms,  though  he  was  deadly  pale,  and  trembling 
BO  violently  that  the  effort  seemed  too  much  for  his  strength. 
At  first  they  dared  not  attempt  to  assist  him  ;  there  was  some- 


THE      LOST      YEAR.  123 

thing  so  terrible  in  my  shrieks  and  wild  efforts  to  free  myself, 
that  they  were  appalled.  It  was  not  till  I  had  exhausted  my 
strength,  and  lay  breathless  and  faintly  struggling  on  his  bosom, 
that  they  ventured  to  approach. 

"  I  must  have  been  a  fearful  sight,  as  they  described  me,  with 
the  white  foam  swelling  to  my  lips,  my  face  flushed,  my  eyes 
vivid  with  fever,  and  both  hands  clenched  wildly  in  the  long  hair 
which  fell  over  my  husband's  arms  and  bosom,  matted  with  the 
jewels  which  I  had  worn  at  Murray's  wedding.  At  every  fresh 
effort  I  made  to  extricate  myself,  some  of  these  gems  broke 
loose,  flashed  to  the  floor,  and  were  trampled  beneath  the  feet 
of  my  servants,  for  everything  was  unheeded  in  the  panic  which 
my  sudden  phrenzy  had  created. 

"  '  Oh,  it  was  an  awful  scene  1'  exclaimed  the  old  housekeeper, 
breaking  off  her  description,  and  removing  the  glasses  from  her 
tearful  eyes  as  she  spoke.  '  I  was  frightened  when  I  looked  at 
you,  but  when  my  master  lifted  his  face,  and  the  light  lay  full 
upon  it,  my  heart  swelled,  and  I  began  to  cry  like  a  child.  There 
was  something  in  his  look — I  cannot  tell  what  it  was — some 
thing  that  made  me  hold  my  breath  with  awe,  yet  sent  the  tears 
to  my  eyes.  I  forgot  you  when  I  looked  at  him. 

"  'We  carried  you  away  to  this  chamber,  and  when  we  laid 
you  on  the  bed,  you  laughed  and  sung  in  a  wild,  shrill  voice, 
that  made  the  blood  grow  cold  in  my  veins.  I  have  never  heard 
a  sound  so  painful  and  thrilling  as  your  cries  were  that  night. 
For  many  hours  you  raved  about  some  terrible  deed  that  was  to 
be  done,  and  wildly  begged  that  there  might  be  no  murder.  Then 
you  would  start  up  and  extend  your  arms  in  a  pleading,  earnest 
way  to  my  master,  and  would  entreat  him  with  wild  and  touch 
ing  eloquence,  to  let  you  die — to  imprison  you  in  some  cold, 
drear  place,  where  you  would  never  see  him  again,  but  not  to 
wound  you  so  cruelly  with  his  eyes. 

"  '  I  knew  that  all  this  was  but  the  effect  of  a  brain  fever — that 
there  could  be  no  meaning  in  your  words.  Yet  it  seemed  to  me 
that  my  master  should  have  striven  to  tranquillize  you  more  than 


124:  MART      DERWENT. 

he  did.  Had  he  promised  all  you  required,  it  might  have  had 
a  soothing  influence  ;  for  you  were  strangely  anxious  that  he 
should  give  a  pledge  not  to  hate  or  even  condemn  some  person 
who  was  not  named.  Yet,  though  you  would  at  moments  plead 
for  mercy  and  protection  with  a  piteous  helplessness  that  might 
have  won  the  heart  of  an  enemy  to  compassion,  he  stood  over 
you  unchanged  in  that  look  of  stern  sorrow,  which  had  struck 
me  so  forcibly  in  the  library.  He  scarely  seemed  to  comprehend 
the  wild  pathos  of  your  words,  but  his  composure  was  stern  and 
painful  to  look  upon. 

"  '  At  last  you  appeared  to  become  more  quiet,  but  still  kept 
your  eyes  fixed  pleadingly  on  his  face,  and  a  wild,  sweet  strain 
breathed  from  your  lips,  with  a  rise  and  fall  so  sad  and  plaintive, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  half  your  voice  must  have  dissolved  to  tears, 
and  a  broken  heart  was  flowing  away  in  its  own  low  melody. 

"  '  While  the  music  yet  lingered  about  your  lips,  you  began  to 
talk  of  your  mother,  of  a  stone  church  where  she  had  first  taught 
you  to  pray — of  a  coffin,  and  a  large  white  rose-tree,  that  grew 
beneath  a  window,  which  you  had  loved  because  her  dear  hand 
had  planted  it  ;  then  you  besought  him  to  bring  some  of  those 
roses — white  and  pure,  you  said — that  they  might  be  laid  upon 
your  heart  and  take  the  fever  away  ;  then  none  need  be  ashamed 
to  weep  when  you  died,  and,  perhaps,  they  might  bury  you 
beside  your  mother. 

"  '  It  was  enough  to  break  one's  heart  to  hear  you  plead  in  that 
sad,  earnest  way,  and  I  saw,  through  the  tears  which  almost 
blinded  me,  that  my  master  was  losing  his  self-command.  The  veins 
began  to  swell  on  his  forehead,  and  a  tremulous  motion  became 
visible  about  his  mouth,  which  had,  till  then,  remained  as  firm 
and  almost  as  white  as  marble.  He  made  a  movement  as  if 
about  to  go  away  ;  but  just  then  you  raised  your  arms,  and 
winding  them  about  his  neck,  said  :  "  Nay,  Varnham,  you  will 
not  leave  me  to  die  here.  Let  us  go  to  our  own  old  home.  I  will 
be  very  quiet,  and  will  not  try  to  live — only  promise  me  this  : 
bury  me  beneath  the  balcony,  and  let  that  lone,  white  rose-tree 


THE      LOST      YEAR.  125 

blossom  over  me  for  ever  and  ever.  I  cannot  exactly  tell  why, 
but  they  will  not  let  me  rest  beside  my  mother,  so  my  spirit  shall 
stay  among  those  pure  flowers  in  patient  bondage,  till  all  shall 
proclaim  it  purified  and  stainless  enough  to  go  and  dwell  with 
her.  Kiss  me  once  more,  and  say  that  you  will  go." 

"  '  My  master  could  but  feebly  resist  the  effort  with  which  his 
face  was  drawn  to  yours  ;  but  when  your  lips  met  his,  he  began 
to  tremble  again,  and  strove  to  unwind  your  arms  from  his 
neck  ;  but  you  laid  your  head  on  his  bosom,  and  that  low,  sad 
melody  again  broke  from  your  lips,  and  your  arms  still  wound 
more  clingingly  about  him,  at  every  effort  to  undo  their  clasp. 

"  '  He  looked  down  upon  the  face  that  would  not  be  removed 
from  its  rest  ;  his  bosom  heaved,  he  wound  his  arms  convulsively 
about  your  form  for  a  moment,  then  forced  you  back  to  the  pil 
low,  and  fell  upon  his  knees  by  the  bed-side.  His  face  was  buried 
in  the  counterpane,  but  the  sound  of  his  half-stifled  sobs  grew 
audible  throughout  the  room,  and  the  bed  shook  beneath  the 
violent  trembling  of  his  form.  I  beckoned  the  maid,  and  we 
stole  from  his  presence,  for  it  seemed  wrong  to  stand  by  and 
gaze  upon  such  grief. 

"  '  When  we  returned,  you  were  silent,  and  apparently  asleep. 
He  was  sitting  by  the  bed,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  your  face 
with  the  same  mournful,  forgiving  look  with  which  I  have  seen 
him  regard  you  a  thousand  times  since.  He  spoke  in  his  usual 
gentle  way,  and  told  us  to  tread  lightly  that  we  might  not  dis 
turb  you.  It  was  many  hours  before  you  awoke.  My  master 
was  concealed  by  the  drapery  ;  you  started  up  with  a  wild  cry, 
and  asked  if  he  had  gone  to  do  murder.  He  caught  you  in  his 
arms  as  you  were  about  to  spring  from  the  bed,  and  with  gentle 
violence  forced  you  back  to  the  pillows  again.  Then  he  waved 
his  hand  for  us  to  draw  back,  and  spoke  to  you  in  a  solemn  and 
impressive  voice  ;  but  the  last  words  only  reached  me.  They 
were, 

"  '  "I  have  promised,  solemnly  promised,  Caroline — try  to  com 
prehend  me  and  be  at  rest." 


126  MART      DERWENT. 

"  '  Your  fever  raged  many  days  after  that,  and  you  were  con 
stantly  delirious,  but  never  violent,  and  that  frightful  dread  of 
some  impending  evil  seemed  to  have  left  you  entirely.  Your 
disease,  at  length  abated,  and  the  bloom  gradually  returned  to 
your  cheek,  but  every  new  mark  of  convalescence,  only  seemed 
to  deepen  the  melancholy  which  had  settled  on  my  master. 

" '  He  was  restless,  and  sometimes  most  irritable  when  we 
pointed  out  proofs  of  returning  health  and  reason.  But  when 
day  after  day  passed  by,  and  your  mind  still  continued  its  child 
like  gentleness  and  its  fanciful  wanderings,  when  you  would  smile 
upon  him  so  sweetly,  and  talk  of  the  beautiful  things  you  had 
seen,  of  strange  worlds  and  flowers  and  birds,  with  an  enthusiasm 
which  combined  the  wildness  of  insanity  with  the  gentle  sim 
plicity  of  childhood,  he  seemed  to  love  you  more  fondly  than 
ever.  He  would  sit  and  talk  to  you  of  these  sweet  themes,  and 
listen  to  your  singing,  which  never  seemed  so  full  of  the  heart 
as  then,  and  encouraged  all  your  childish  wishes  with  the  indul 
gence  of  an  anxious  parent. 

"  *  When  I  saw  you  both  so  contented  and  so  constantly  to 
gether,  I  thought  of  those  times  when  we  had  so  much  company 
at  Ashton,  of  the  hours  which  my  good  master  would  spend 
alone  in  the  library,  when  everybody  else  was  so  gay.  Arid  as 
I  compared  your  soft  voice  and  submissive  manners  with  the 
imperious  and  lofty  air  of  those  times,  it  did  not  seem  so  strange 
that  my  master  should  content  himself  with  the  mental  aliena 
tion,  which  never  took  a  more  lovely  form  or  brought  a  human 
soul  back  more  gently  to  its  childhood. 

14 '  When  the  physicians  decided  that  your  mind  would  never 
regain  its  former  strength,  but  that  it  would  ever  remain  wan 
dering  and  gentle,  and  full  of  beautiful  images  as  the  fever  had 
left  it,  my  master  became  almost  cheerful.  He  would  allow  no 
restraint  to  be  placed  upon  you,  and  gave  orders  that  you  should 
be  attended  with  all  the  respect  and  deference  that  had  ever 
been  rendered  to  your  station.  He  never  seemed  more  happy 
than  while  wandering  with  you  about  the  gardens,  and  in  the 


THE      LOST      TEAK.  127 

9.  (  :.      „ 

park  ;  yet  there  were  times  when  he  would  sit  and  gaze  on  your 
face  as  you  slept,  with  a  sad,  regretful  look,  that  betrayed  how 
truly  he  must  have  sorrowed  over  your  misfortune.  There  was 
a  yearning  tenderness  in  his  eye  at  such  times,  more  touching 
far  than  tears.  I  could  see  that  he  struggled  against  these  feel 
ings,  as  if  there  existed  something  to  be  ashamed  of  in  them,  but 
they  would  return  again/ 

"  All  this,  and  much  more,  my  good  housekeeper  said,  in  an 
swer  to  the  questions  which  I  put  to  her,  as  my  reason  began  to 
connect  the  present  with  the  past.  She  did  not  hesitate  to  in 
form  me  of  anything  that  I  might  wish  to  know,  for  she  had  no 
belief  in  my  power  to  understand  and  connect  her  narrative.  I 
had  often  questioned  her  before,  and  invariably  forgot  her  an 
swers  as  they  fell  from  her  lips  ;  but  every  word  of  this  conver 
sation  was  graven  on  my  memory,  and  if  I  have  not  repeated 
her  exact  language,  the  spirit  and  detail  of  her  information  is 
preserved. 

"  There  was  one  subject  that  my  housekeeper  had  not  men 
tioned — my  child.  At  first  my  intellect  was  too  feeble  for  con 
tinued  thought,  and  I  did  not  notice  this  strange  omission. 
Besides,  some  painful  intuition  kept  me  silent  ;  the  very  thought 
of  my  own  child  was  painful. 

"  At  last  I  questioned  her. 

"  '  Where/  I  said,  '  is  my  daughter  ?  Surely,  in  my  illness  he 
has  not  kept  her  from  me  V 

11  The  old  woman  became  deadly  pale  ;  she  turned  away,  re 
pulsing  the  subject  with  a  gesture  of  her  withered  hands,  which 
terrified  me. 

"  '  My  child  I'  I  said  ;  '  why  are  you  silent  ?  What  have  you 
done  with  her  ?' 

"  Still  the  old  woman  was  speechless  ;  but  I  could  see  tears 
stealing  down  her  face. 

"  'Bring  her  hither/  I  said,  sick  with  apprehension  ;  'I  wish 
to  see  how  much  my  daughter  has  grown.7 


128  3tfARY      DERWENT. 

"  The  old  woman  flung  herself  at  my  feet.  Her  hands  gather 
ed  np  mine  and  held  them  fast. 

"  '  Do  not  ask — do  not  seek  to  remember.  Oh,  my  lady,  forget 
that  you  ever  had  a  child  !' 

"  '  Forget — and  why  ?  Who  has  dared  to  harm  the  child  of 
my  bosom,  the  heiress  of  my  house  ?' 

"  She  hid  her  face  in  my  lap  ;  she  clung  to  my  knees,  moaning 
piteously. 

"A  vague  remembrance  seized  npon  me — that  pale  form 
shrouded  in  its  golden  hair — my  heart  was  like  ice.  I  bent  down 
and  whispered  in  the  old  woman's  ear  : 

"  '  Who  was  it  harmed  my  child  ?' 

"  She  lifted  her  head  with  a  wild  outbreak  of  sorrow — my 
question  almost  drove  her  mad. 

"  '  Oh,  lady,  my  master  would  let  her  come  to  your  room — 
we  were  not  to  blame  ;  you  had  always  been  so  sweet-tempered 
and  loving  with  her  that  we  had  no  fear.' 

"She  stopped  short,  frightened  by  my  looks.  I  whispered 
hoarsely  : 

"  '  My  child  !  my  child  \> 

"That  horrible  pause  was  broken  at  last.  She  lifted  her 
hands  to  heaven,  the  tears  streamed  down  her  face  like  rain. 

"  '  Do  not  ask — oh,  my  lady,  I  beseech  you,  do  not  ask.' 

"  '  My  child — my  child  ?' 

"  I  could  feel  the  whispers  lose  themselves  in  my  throat  ;  but 
she  understood  them,  and  her  own  voice  sunk  so  low  that,  had 
not  my  soul  listened,  the  terrible  truth  could  not  have  reached 
it. 

"  '  With  your  own  hands  you  destroyed  her— with  your  own 
hands  you  dashed  her  from  the  window  !' 

"  Slowly  from  heart  to  limb  the  blood  froze  in  my  veins  ;  for 
two  days  I  lay  in  rigid  silence,  praying  only  for  death.  No,  not 
even  insanity  would  return.  As  yet,  I  had  only  spent  the  holy- 
day  of  my  error.  God  would  permit  my  brain  to  slumber  no 
longer. 


THE      LOST      TEAK.  129 

"  I  had  but  one  wish — to  escape  that  house,  to  flee  from  every 
thing  and  everybody  that  had  ever  known  me.  It  was  no  mad 
desire — no  remnant  of  insanity.  I  reasoned  coldly  and  well. 
Why  not  ?  utter  hopelessness  is  wise. 

"  I  dreaded  but  one  thing  on  earth — the  return  of  my  hus 
band.  We  never  could  be  united  again.  He  would  not  find 
the  helpless  being  he  had  left,  but  a  proud  woman,  whose  heart 
if  not  her  life  had  wronged  him.  He  would  not  find  the  mother 
of  his  child,  but  its  innocent,  wretched  murderer.  I  felt  how 
bitter  must  be  the  news  of  my  returning  reason  to  the  man  who 
had  forgiven  the  errors  of  my  real  character,  because  they  had 
been  so  painfully  lost  in  a  visionary  one,  which  disarmed  resent 
ment  only  from  its  very  helplessness.  I  understood  all  Varnham's 
generosity,  all  his  extraordinary  benevolence  ;  but  I  knew,  also, 
that  he  was  a  proud  man,  with  an  organization  so  exquisitely 
refined,  that  the  sins  of  alienated  affection  would  affect  him  more 
deeply  than  actual  crime,  with  ordinary  men.  I  felt  that  it  was 
impossible  for  me  ever  to  see  him  again. 

"  My  plan  for  the  future  was  soon  formed.  I  resolved  to  leave 
England  for  ever.  My  heart  sickened  when  I  thought  of  ming 
ling  in  society,  of  meeting  with  people  who  might  talk  to  me  of 
things  which  would  rend  my  heart  continually  with  recollections 
of  the  past.  The  love  which  had  been  the  great  error  of  my  life, 
still  held  possession  of  my  heart  with  a  strength  which  would' 
not  be  conquered.  Could  I  go  forth,  then,  into  the  world  ? 
Could  I  live  in  my  own  house,  where  everything  was  associated 
with  recollections  of  that  love — where  every  bush  and  flower 
would  breathe  a  reproach  to  the  heart  which  still  worshipped  on, 
when  worship  was  double  guilt  and  double  shame  ?  Could  I 
look  upon  the  spot  where  my  child  had  perished,  and  live  ?  No, 
I  resolved  to  leave  all,  to  break  every  tie  which  bound  me  to 
civilized  man,  and  to  fling  myself  into  a  new  state  of  existence. 
I  thought,  and  still  think,  that  it  was  the  only  way  by  which  I 
could  secure  any  portion  of  tranquillity  to  my  husband.  It  woujd 
be  terrible  for  him  to  believe  that  I  had  died  by  my  own  hands, 

9 


130  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

but  mucli  more  terrible  if  he  returned  and,  in  place  of  the  mind 
less  being  who  had  become  so  utterly  helpless,  so  completely  the 
object  of  his  compassion,  found  the  woman  who  had  wronged 
him,  fully  conscious  of  her  fault,  yet  without  the  humility  and 
penitence  which  should  have  followed  his  generous  forgiveness. 
There  was  too  much  of  the  pride  of  my  old  nature  left.  I  could 
not  have  lived  in  the  same  house  with  the  man  I  had  so  injured. 

"  The  Granby  property  was  unentailed,  with  the  exception  of 
one  small  estate,  which  went  with  the  title.  Immediately  on 
coming  in  possession  of  the  estates,  I  had  made  a  will,  bequeath 
ing  the  whole  vast  property  to  my  child,  and  making  my  husband 
her  trustee  ;  but  in  case  of  her  death,  all  was  to  revert  to  him. 
He  knew  nothing  of  this  ;  but  the  will  was  consigned  to  the 
hands  of  honorable  men,  and  I  was  certain  that  it  would  be  le 
gally  acted  upon.  In  raising  the  sum  which  I  devoted  to  Mur 
ray,  my  agent  had  sold  stocks  to  more  than  quadruple  the 
amount.  This  money  had  been  paid  to  me,  but  in  the  excite 
ment  of  my  feelings,  I  had  neglected  to  place  it  with  my  banker, 
and  had  left  it  in  an  escritoir,  at  our  town  house,  where  was 
also  deposited  the  most  valuable  portion  of  my  jewels.  I  had  no 
arrangements  to  make  which  could  in  any  way  reveal  the  course 
I  had  determined  to  pursue. 

"  There  was  one  subject  which  I  had  not  yet  ventured  to  men 
tion.  My  cheek  burned,  and  my  heart  beat  quick,  when  I  at  last 
brought  myself  to  inquire  about  Murray.  He  was  living  a  se 
cluded  life  at  a  small  cottage  near  Richmond.  It  was  all  I  cared 
to  learn. 

"  The  second  night  after  the  conversation  with  my  house 
keeper,  I  stole  softly  to  the  room  of  a  sleeping  housemaid,  and 
dressed  myself  in  a  suit  of  cast-off  clothing  which  was  not  likely 
to  be  missed  ;  then,  with  a  few  guineas  which  I  found  in  my 
desk,  I  went  cautiously  out,  and  left  my  house  forever. 

"  Along  the  edge  of  the  park  ran  a  stream  of  small  magnitude, 
but  remarkable  for  its  depth.  On  the  brink  of  this  stream  I 
left  a  portion  of  the  garments  I  had  worn  j  then  departed  on 


THE    COTTAGE    AND    THE    WILDERNESS.     131 

foot  for  the  nearest  post  town,  where  I  procured  a  passage  to 
London.  I  found  ray  house  closed,  but  entered  it  with  a  private 
key,  and  took  from  my  escritoir  the  money  and  jewels  which 
had  been  left  there  more  than  a  year  before. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    COTTAGE   AND    THE    WILDERNESS. 

"  THE  third  evening  after  leaving  Ashton,  I  stood  in  front  of 
a  beautiful  cottage,  separated  from  the  thickly  settled  portions 
of  Richmond  by  pleasure  grounds,  rather  more  spacious  than  is 
usual  in  that  neighborhood,  and  still  farther  secluded  by  groups 
of  ornamental  trees.  A  light  broke  softly  through  the  wreathing 
foliage  which  draped  the  windows  of  a  lower  room,  and  I  could 
distinguish  the  shadow  of  a  man  walking  to  and  fro  within. 

"•  I  knew  that  it  was  Murray,  and  that  I  should  see  him  once 
more  that  night,  yet  my  heart  beat  slow  and  regularly,  without 
a  throb  to  warn  me  of  the  deep  feeling  which  still  lived  there  in 
undying  strength.  I  had  no  hope,  and  entire  hopelessness  is 
rest.  I  inquired  for  the  housekeeper,  and  told  her  that  I  had 
been  informed  she  wished  to  hire  a  housemaid  ;  that  I  was  with 
out  a  place,  and  had  come  all  the  way  from  the  city  to  secure 
one  with  her.  I  knew  that  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to 
send  me  back  to  London  late  at  night  and  alone,  and,  as  I  anti 
cipated,  was  invited  to  stay  till  morning. 

"When  the  kind  housekeeper  was  asleep,  I  stole  from  her 
chamber  and  sought  the  apartment  where  I  had  seen  the  light.  It 
was  a  small  room,  partly  fitted  up  as  a  study,  and  partly  as  a 
parlor.  Books  and  musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about  ;  a 
few  cabinet  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls,  and  a  portrait  of  Mur- 


132  MARY     DEKWENT. 

ray  looked  down  upon  me  from  over  the  mantel-piece  as  I  entered. 
A  lamp  was  still  burning-,  and  an  open  work-box  seemed  to  have 
been  pushed  from  its  station  on  the  table,  directly  beneath  it, 
to  make  room  for  a  small  book  of  closely  filled  manuscript  which 
lay  open,  as  if  it  had  just  been  written  in.  A  pen  lay  by,  and 
the  ink  was  yet  damp  on  the  unfinished  page.  Even  across  the 
room  I  knew  the  handwriting  ;  the  impulse  to  read  which  seized 
upon  me  was  unconquerable.  I  held  my  breath,  for  the  stillness 
around  was  like  n.  hush  of  a  tomb,  and  the  characters  seemed  to 
start  up  like  living  witnesses  beneath  my  eye,  as  I  bent  over  the 
book.  Thus  the  page  ran  : 

"  '  They  tell  me  she  is  mad — that  her  fine  mind  is  broken, 
and  her  warm  heart  unstrung  forever.  They  say  this,  and  com 
ment  and  speculate  upon  causes  in  my  presence  as  if  I  could  not 
feel.  I  sit  with  apparent  calmness,  and  listen  to  things  which 
would  break  a  common  heart. 

" '  The  soft  smile  of  my  wife  is  ever  upon  me,  the  cheek  of  my 
boy  dimples  beneath  my  glance  if  I  but  raise  my  eyes  to  his 
innocent  face,  and  yet  there  are  times  when  I  cannot  look  upon 
them.  The  image  of  that  noble  and  ruined  being  is  forever 
starting  up  between  me  and  them.  I  did  not  intend  this  when  I 
took  upon  myself  the  right  to  regulate  the  destiny  of  a  fellow- 
being — madness — no,  no,  I  never  thought  of  that  I  I  did  not 
dream  that  my  own  nature — but  why  should  I  wrrite  this  ?  Yet 
I  cannot  keep  these  feelings  forever  pent  up  in  my  heart. 

"  '  It  was  terrible  news  !  Why  did  that  officious  physician 
come  here  to  tell  me  there  was  no  hope,  and  this  day  above  all 
others  in  the  year  ?  Was  it  any  reason  that  he  should  wound 
me  with  this  news,  because  I  was  known  to  be  a  friend  of 
the  family — a  friend  truly  ?  How  coldly  the  man  told  me  that 
she  could  never  recover  her  reason  !  It  was  like  the  slow  stab 
of  a  poignard;  my  heart  quivered  under  it.  Just  then  my  wife 
must  come  with  her  innocent  and  loving  voice,  to  give  me  the 
good-night  kiss  before  she  left  me.  Poor  thing,  she  little  dreamed 
of  the  melancholy  tidings  which  caused  me  to  return  her  caress 


THE    COTTAGE    AND    THE    WILDERNESS.     133 

so  coldly.    I  will  try  and -seek  rest,  bnt  not  with  them ;  sometimes  I 
wish  that  I  might  never  see  them  again.    I  must  be  alone  to-night !' 

"  It  was  but  the  fulfillment  of  my  own  prophecy.  I  knew  that 
he  could  not  be  happy  ;  that  he  never  would  be  again  ;  never 
even  tranquil  till  he  believed  me  in  my  grave.  My  resolution 
was  more  firmly  established,  I  would  not  live  a  continual  cause 
of  torment  to  him.  I  had  no  desire  that  he  too  should  be  miser 
able  ;  in  my  most  wretched  moments  the  feeling  had  never  entered 
my  heart. 

"  The  rustle  of  silk  caused  me  to  start  from  my  position  as  I 
was  bending  over  the  book.  It  was  only  the  night  wind  sweep 
ing  through  an  open  casement,  that  sent  the  curtain,  which  had 
dropped  over  it,  streaming  out  like  a  banner  into  the  room.  I 
stood  upright,  silent  and  breathless,  for  on  a  low  couch,  which  the 
window  drapery  had  half  concealed  till  now,  lay  Grenville  Mur 
ray.  The  lamp  shone  full  upon  his  face,  arid  even  from  the  dis 
tance,  I  could  see  the  change  which  a  year  of  mental  agitation 
had  made  in  it. 

"  I  went  softly  to  the  couch,  knelt  down,  and  gazed  upon  him 
with  a  hushed  and  calm  feeling,  like  that  which  a  mother  might 
know  while  bending  over  the  couch  of  a  beloved,  but  wayward 
child.  Twice  the  clock  chimed  the  hour,  and  still  I  knelt  by 
that  couch  and  gazed  on  that  pale,  sleeping  face,  with  a  cold 
hopeless  sorrow,  which  had  no  voice  for  lamentation. 

"  A  third  time  the  clock  beat.  I  bent  forward  and  pressed  my 
lips  to  his  forehead  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  Oh  1  how  my 
heart  swelled  to  my  lips  with  that  one  soft  kiss.  It  seemed 
breaking  with  solemn  tenderness — such  tenderness  as  we  give  to 
the  dead  before  the  beloved  clay  is  taken  from  us  forever.  My 
lips  were  cold  and  tremulous,  but  he  did  not  awake  beneath  the 
pressure,  and  I  did  not  repeat  it,  or  look  on  him  again.  I  knew 
we  were,  parting  forever,  but  had  no  power  to  look  back. 

"  I  passed  from  the  house  slowly,  and  with  a  solemn  feeling  of 
desolation,  as  one  might  tread  through  a  grave-yard  alone,  and  at 
midnight. 


134:  MAKY     DEE  WENT. 

"  In  the  disguise,  which  had  served  me  so  well,  I  sailed  for 
America.  I  had  no  wish  to  mingle  with  my  race,  but  took  my 
way  from  New  York  to  the  valley  of  the  Mohawk,  and  sought 
the  presence  of  Sir  William  Johnson.  To  him  I  revealed  myself 
and  as  much  of  my  history  as  was  necessary  to  ensure  his 
co-operation  in  my  plan  for  the  future.  Under  a  solemn  promise 
of  secrecy,  which  has  never  been  broken,  I  entrusted  my  wealth 
to  his  agency,  and  procured  his  promise  of  an  escort  to  the 
tribe  of  Indians,  then  located  in  his  neighborhood.  Among 
these  savages  I  hoped  to  find  perfect  isolation  from  my  race  ;  to 
begin  a  new  life  and  cast  the  old  one  away  forever  ;  this  was 
more  like  rising  from  the  grave  into  another  life,  than  anything 
human  existence  had  to  offer.  I  remained  some  months  in  the 
Mohawk  Valley,  waiting  for  news  from  England.  I  was  anxious 
to  hear  that  my  efforts  at  concealment  had  been  effectual  and  that 
my  friends  really  believed  me  dead.  News  came  at  last,  that 
shook  my  soul  to  its  centre  once  more.  Varnham,  my  husband, 
was  dead.  He  would  not  believe  iu  my  destruction,  and  after 
strict  search  traced  me  to  London,  and  on  shipboard,  spite  of 
my  disguise. 

"  He  put  my  property  in  trust,  and  taking  the  next  ship  that 
sailed,  followed  me  to  America,  with  what  purpose  I  never 
knew.  The  ship  was  lost,  and  every  soul  on  board  perished. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

QUEEN    ESTHER. 

"  THE  Shawnee  Indians  had  long  been  governed  by  a  woman, 
whose  name  was  both  feared  and  respected  through  all  the  Six 
Nations.  I  need  not  dwell  either  upon  her  cruelty  or  her  great- 


QUEEN      ESTHER.  135 

ness.  Had  Elizabeth,  of  blessed  memory,  as  sarcastic  history 
names  her,  been  thrown  among  savages,  she  would  have  been 
scarcely  a  rival  to  this  remarkable  chieftainess.  The  same  indo 
mitable  love  of  power — the  same  ferocious  affections,  caressing 
the  neck  one  day,  which  she  gave  to  the  axe  on  the  next — the 
same  haughty  assumption  of  authority  marked  Queen  Esther, 
the  forest  sovereign,  and  Elizabeth,  the  monarch  of  England. 
Both  were  arrogant,  crafty,  selfish  and  ruthless,  proving  their 
power  to  govern,  only  as  they  became  harsh  and  unwomanly. 

"  Queen  Esther  was  the  widow  of  a  great  chief,  whose  authority 
she  had  taken  up  at  his  grave,  and  never  laid  down  during 
twenty-five  years,  when  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  her  eldest  son,  had  earned 
a  right  to  wear  the  eagle  plume,  and  fill  his  father's  place  on  the 
war  path  and  at  the  council  table.  The  great  secret  of  this 
woman's  power  over  her  tribe  lay  in  her  superior  intelligence  and 
the  remnants  of  an  early  education  ;  for  she  was  a  white  woman, 
brought  in  the  bloom  of  girlhood  from  Canada,  where  she  had 
been  taken  prisoner  in  the  wars  between  the  French  and  the  Six 
Nations.  Her  father  was  a  governor  of  Canada,  and  she  had 
been  destined  to  fill  a  high  station  in  civilized  life,  but  she  soon 
learned  to  prefer  savage  rule  to  all  the  remembrances  of  a  deli 
cately  nurtured  childhood,  and,  wedded  to  a  native  chief,  flung 
off  the  refinements  of  life,  save  where  they  added  to  her  influence 
among  the  savages. 

"  Her  name,  like  her  history,  was  thrown  back  upon  the  past — 
the  very  blood  in  her  veins  seemed  to  have  received  a  ferocious 
tint.  She  was,  doubtless,  from  the  first,  a  savage  at  heart. 
Because  this  woman  was,  like  myself,  cast  out,  by  her  own  free 
will,  from  civilized  life,  I  sought  her  in  her  wild  home,  and,  under 
an  escort  from  Sir  William  Johnson,  claimed  a  place  in  her 
tribe.  The  lands  around  Seneca  Lake  were  then  in  possession 
of  the  Shawnees.  Queen  Esther  occupied  a  spacious  lodge  at 
the  head  of  this  lake,  and  had  put  large  tracts  of  land  under  cul 
tivation  around  it. 

"  Around  this  dwelling,  she  had  gathered  all  the  refinements  of 


136  MAKY      DEE  WENT. 

her  previous  life  that  could  be  wrested  from  rude  nature  or  ani 
mal  strength.  Her  lodge  possessed  many  comforts  that  the 
frontier  settlers  might  have  envied.  The  lands  were  rich  with 
corn  and  fruit.  Her  apple  orchards  blossomed  and  cast  their 
fruit  on  the  edge  of  the  wilderness.  The  huts  of  her  people 
were  embowered  with  peach  trees,  and  purple  plums  dropped  upon 
the  forest  sward  at  their  doors.  In  times  of  peace,  Queen 
Esther  was  a  provident  and  wise  sovereign.  In  war — but  I  need 
not  say  how  terrible  she  was  in  war.  Beautiful  as  I  have 
described  it,  was  the  country  of  the  Shawnees,  when  my  escort 
drew  up  in  front  of  Queen  Esther's  lodge.  She  came  forth  to 
meet  me,  arrayed  in  her  wild,  queenly  garb,  and  treading  the 
green  turf  like  an  empress.  She  was  then  more  than  sixty  years 
of  age,  but  her  stately  form  bore  no  marks  of  time  ;  there  was 
not  a  thread  of  silver  in  her  black  hair,  and  her  eyes  were  like 
those  of  an  eagle,  clear  and  piercing. 

"  She  read  Sir  William's  letter,  casting  glances  from  that  to  my 
face,  as  if  perusing  the  two  with  one  thought ;  then  advancing 
to  my  horse,  she  lifted  me  to  the  ground  and  gave  me  her  hand 
to  kiss,  as  if  I  had  been  a  child  and  she  an  emperor,  who  had 
vouchsafed  an  act  of  gallantry.  '  It  is  well/  she  said.  '  You 
shall  have  a  mat  in  my  lodge.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  shall  spread  it 
with  his  own  hands,  for  we  of  the  white  blood  bring  wise  thoughts 
and  sweet  words  to  the  tribe,  and  must  not  work  like  squaws. 
When  women  sit  in  council  the  braves  spread  their  mats,  and 
spear  salmon  for  them.  This  is  my  law.' 

"I  answered  promptly,  that  I  had  brought  gold,  knowledge,  and 
a  true  heart  into  the  wilderness  ;  that  all  I  asked  was  a  corner 
in  her  lodge,  and  permission  to  rest  among  her  people  ;  to  learn 
their  ways,  and  be  one  of  them  till  death  called  me  away. 

"  *  It  is  well/  she  answered.  '  This  letter  says  that  you  have 
fled  from  many  tears,  and  brought  wisdom  and  gold  from  over 
the  big  waters.  Come,  I  have  a  robe  embroidered  with  my  own 
hand,  and  plumage  from  flame-colored  birds,  with  which  my 
women  shall  crown  you  before  my  son  comes  from  the  war-council 


QUEEN      ESTHER.  137 

of  the  Six  Nations.  My  eyes  are  getting  dim,  and  I  can  no 
longer  string  the  wampum  or  work  garlands  on  the  robes  my 
women  have  prepared  for  my  needle.  You  shall  be  eyes  to  me  ; 
when  my  voice  grows  weak  you  shall  talk  sweet  words  to  the 
warriors,  and  they  will  obey  me  still.  When  I  am  dead,  struck 
down  with  the  white  frost  of  age,  then  you  shall  be  queen  in 
my  place  ;  I  will  teach  the  chiefs  to  obey  you.  Have  I  spoken 
well  ?' 

"  She  waited  for  no  answer,  but  led  me  into  the  lodge,  brought 
forth  a  robe  of  embroidered  skins,  such  as  clothed  her  own  stately 
person,  and  clothed  me  in  it  with  her  own  hands.  If  she 
used  any  other  ceremony  of  adoption,  I  did  not  understand  it, 
nor  indeed  how  much  this  act  portended.  Queen  Esther  was  a 
shrewd  woman,  ambitious  for  herself  and  her  tribe.  She  knew 
well  the  value  of  the  gold  which  I  had  deposited  with  Sir  Wil 
liam  Johnson,  and  how  rich  a  harvest  my  coming  might  secure 
to  them. 

"  Queen  Esther  kept  her  promise.  Her  influence  placed  me  at 
once  in  a  position  of  power.  She  never  asked  my  name,  but 
gave  me  that  which  she  had  cast  aside  on  renouncing  her  own 
race,  Catharine  Montour. 

"  I  was  among  the  children  of  nature,  in  the  broad,  deep  for 
ests  of  a  new  world.  I  had  broken  every  tie  which  had  bound 
me  to  my  kind,  and  was  free.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt 
the  force  of  liberty  and  the  wild,  sublime  pleasures  of  an  un 
shackled  spirit.  Every  new  thought  which  awoke  my  heart  in 
that  deep  wilderness,  was  full  of  sublimity  and  wild  poetic 
strength.  There  was  something  of  stern,  inborn  greatness  in  the 
savages  who  had  adopted  me — something  picturesque  in  their 
raiment,  and  majestic  in  their  wild,  untaught  eloquence,  that 
aroused  the  new  and  stern  properties  of  my  nature,  till  my  very 
being  seemed  changed. 

"  The  wish  to  be  loved  and  cherished  forsook  me  forever. 
New  energies  started  to  life,  and  I  almost  scorned  myself,  that  I 
had  ever  bowed  to  the  weakness  of  affection.  What  was  domin- 


138  MAET      DERWENT. 

ion  over  one  heart  compared  to  the  knowledge  that  the  wild, 
fierce  spirits  of  a  thousand  savage  beings  were  quelled  by  the 
sound  of  my  footsteps  ? — not  with  a  physical  and  cowardly  fear, 
but  with  an  awe  which  was  of  the  spirit — a  superstitious  dread, 
which  was  to  them  a  religion.  Without  any  effort  of  my  own,  I 
became  a  being  of  fear  and  wonder  to  the  whole  savage  nation. 
They  looked  upon  me  as  a  spirit  from  the  great  hunting-ground, 
sent  to  them  by  Manitou,  endowed  with  beauty  and  supernatural 
powers,  which  demanded  all  their  rude  worship,  and  fixed  me 
among  them  as  a  deity. 

11 1  encouraged  this  belief,  for  a  thirst  for  rule  and  ascendency 
was  strong  upon  me.  I  became  a  despot  and  yet  a  benefactress 
in  the  exercise  of  my  power,  and  the  distribution  of  my  wealth. 
Did  one  of  those  strong,  savage  creatures  dare  to  offend  me,  I 
had  but  to  lift  my  finger,  and  he  was  stripped  of  his  ornaments 
and  scourged  forth  from  his  nation,  a  disgraced  and  abandoned 
alien,  without  home,  or  people,  or  friends.  On  the  other  hand, 
did  they  wish  for  trinkets,  or  beads,  or  powder  for  the  rifles 
which  I  had  presented  to  them,  they  had  to  bend  low  to  their 
'  White  Prophetess '  as  she  passed  ;  to  weave  her  lodge  with 
flowers,  and  line  it  with  rich  furs  ;  to  bring  her  a  singing-bird, 
or  to  carry  her  litter  through  the  rough  passes  of  the  mountains, 
and  a  piece  of  smooth  bark,  covered  with  signs  which  they  knew 
nothing  of,  was  sent  to  Sir  William  Johnson,  and  lo,  their  wants 
were  supplied. 

"  This  was  power,  such  as  my  changed  heart  panted  for.  I 
grew  stern,  selfish  and  despotic,  among  these  rude  savages,  but 
never  cruel.  Your  people  wrong  me  there  ;  no  drop  of  blood 
has  ever  been  shed  by  me  or  through  my  instrumentality  ;  but 
my  gold  has  bought  many  poor  victims  from  the  stake,  who 
falsely  believe  that  my  vindictive  power  had  sent  them  there  ;  my 
entreaties  have  saved  many  a  village  from  the  flames,  and  many 
hearths  from  desolation,  where  my  name  is  spoken  as  a  word  of 
fear." 


THE    DEATH -FIKE    AND    THE    SACRIFICE.    139 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  DEATH-FIRE  AND  THE  SACRIFICE. 

"  THE  eldest  son  of  Queen  Esther  was  a  noble.  He  came  of  his 
father's  race,  with  something  of  refinement,  which  his  mother  never 
could  entirely  cast  aside,  blended  with  it.  From  her  early  recol 
lections  Queen  Esther  had  given  him  fragments  of  a  rude  poetical 
education,  and  this,  with  the  domestic  refinement  of  her  lodge, 
had  lifted  him  unconsciously  above  the  other  chiefs  of  his  tribe. 

"  He  not  only  possessed  that  bravery  which  won  the  admiration 
of  his  people,  and  was  essential  to  their  respect,  but  in  his  char 
acter  were  combined  all  the  elements  of  a  warrior  and  a  states 
man.  Indepjndent  of  this  superior  knowledge,  his  mind  was 
naturally  too  majestic  and  penetrating  to  yield  me  the  homage 
which  was  so  readily  rendered  by  the  more  ignorant  of  his  tribe. 

"It  is  painful  to  dwell  on  this  period  of  my  life.  Suffice  it, 
again  I  heard  the  pleadings  of  love  from  the  untutored  lips  of  a 
savage  chief.  I,  who  had  fled  from  the  very  name  of  affection  as 
from  a  pestilence — who  had  given  up  country,  home,  the  semblance 
of  existence  that  my  heart  might  be  at  rest,  was  forced  to  listen  to 
the  pleadings  of  love  from  a  savage,  in  the  heart  of  an  American 
wilderness.  A  savage  chief,  proud  of  his  prowess,  haughty  in 
his  barbarous  power,  came  with  a  lordly  confidence  to  woo  me 
as  his  wife.  My  heart  recoiled  at  the  unnatural  suggestion,  but 
I  had  no  scorn  for  the  brave  Indian  who  made  it.  If  his  mode 
of  wooing  was  rough,  it  was  also  eloquent,  sincere,  manly;  and 
those  were  properties  which  my  spirit  had  ever  answered  with 
respect.  No  ;  I  had  nothing  of  scorn  for  the  red  warrior,  but  I 
rebuked  him  for  his  boldness,  and  threatened  to  forsake  his  tribe 
for  ever  should  he  dare  to  renew  the  subject. 

"  A  month  or  two  after  the  kingly  eavage  declared  his  bold 
wishes  a  contest  arose  between  the  Shawnees  and  a  neighboring 


140  MAEY      DERWENT. 

tribe,  and  the  chief  went  angry  to  the  war-path.  One  day  his 
party  returned  to  the  encampment,  bringing  with  them  three 
prisoners,  a  white  man,  his  wife  and  child.  My  heart  ached  when 
I  heard  of  this,  for  I  dared  not,  as  usual,  entreat  the  chief  for 
their  release,  nor  even  offer  to  purchase  their  freedom  with  gold. 
His  disappointment  had  rendered  him  almost  morose,  and  I  shud 
dered  to  think  of  the  reward  he  might  require  for  the  liberation 
of  his  prisoners.  I  had  full  cause  for  apprehension. 

"  From  the  day  that  I  rejected  her  son,  Queen  Esther  had  kept 
proudly  aloof  from  me.  She  did  not  deign  to  expostulate,  but 
guarded  her  pride  with  stern  silence,  while  a  storm  of  savage  pas 
sions  lowered  on  her  brow,  and  sounded  in  her  fierce  tread,  till 
her  presence  would  have  been  a  terror  to  me  had  I  been  of  a  na 
ture  to  fear  anything. 

"  This  woman  seemed  to  rejoice  at  the  idea  of  wreaking  the 
vengeance  she  would  not  express  in  words  on  my  helpless  com 
patriots,  and  prepared  herself  to  join  this  horrid  festival  of  death 
in  all  the  pomp  of  her  war-plumes  and  most  gorgeous  raiment. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  humbled  myself  before  this  woman, 
on  my  knees,  for  she  was  one  to  exact  the  most  abject  homage. 
I  besought  her  to  save  my  countrymen  from  death. 

"  She  met  my  entreaties  with  a  cold  sneer  that  froze  me  to 
the  heart. 

" '  It  is  well,'  she  said,  wrapping  her  robe  around  her  with  a 
violence  that  made  its  wampum  fringes  rattle  like  a  storm  of  shot. 
'  The  woman  who  refuses  the  great  chief  of  the  Shawnees 
when  he  would  build  her  a  lodge  larger  than  his  mother's, 
should  be  proud,  and  stand  up  with  her  face  to  the  sun,  not 
whine  like  a  baby  because  her  people  do  not  know  how  to  die.' 

"  Her  air  and  voice  were  more  cruel  than  her  words.  I  saw 
that  my  intercession  would  only  add  to  the  tortures  that  I  was 
powerless  to  prevent,  for  if  the  mother  was  so  unrelenting  what 
had  I  to  expect  from  thte  son  ? 

"  Queen  Esther  tore  her  garments  from  my  clasp,  and  plunged 
into  the  forest  to  join  her  son. 


THE    DEATH-FIKE    AND    THE    SACRIFICE.     14:1 

"  I  shudder  even  now,  when  I  think  of  the  horrible  sensation 
which  crept  over  me  as  the  warriors  went  forth  from  the  camp, 
file  after  file,  painted  and  plumed  with  gorgeous  feathers,  each 
with  his  war-club  and  tomahawk,  to  put  three  beings,  of  my 
blood  and  nation,  to  a  death  of  torture. 

"  I  dared  not  plead  for  their  release  in  person,  but  sent  to 
offer  ransom,  earnestly  appealing  to  the  generosity  of  the  chief 
in  my  message.  He  returned  me  no  answer.  I  could  do  nothing 
more,  but  as  the  hours  crept  by,  my  heart  was  very,  very  heavy; 
it  seemed  as  if  the  sin  of  blood  were  about  to  be  heaped  upon 
it. 

"  The  night  came  on,  dark  and  gloomy  as  the  grave.  The 
whole  tribe,  even  to  the  women  and  children,  had  gone  into  the 
forest,  and  I  was  alone  in  the  great  lodge — almost  alone  in  the 
village.  There  was  something  more  appalling  than  I  can  de 
scribe  in  the  dense  gloom  that  settled  on  the  wilderness,  in  the 
whoop  and  fierce  cries  of  the  revelling  savages,  which  surged  up 
through  the  trees  like  the  roar  and  rant  of  a  herd  of  wild  beasts 
wrangling  over  their  prey. 

"  Not  a  star  was  in  the  sky,  not  a  sound  stirred  abroad — no 
thing  save  the  black  night  and  the  horrid  din  of  those  blood 
thirsty  savages  met  my  senses.  Suddenly,  a  sharp  yell  cut 
through  the  air  like  the  cry  of  a  thousand  famished  hyenas,  then 
a  spire  of  flame  darted  up  from  the  murky  forest,  and  shot  into 
the  darkness  with  a  clear,  lurid  brightness,  like  the  flaming 
tongue  of  a  dragon,  quivering  and  afire  with  its  own  venom. 
Again  that  yell  rang  out — again  and  again,  till  the  very  air 
seemed  alive  with  savage  tongues. 

"  I  could  bear  no  more  ;  my  nerves  had  been  too  madly  ex 
cited.  I  sprang  forward  with  a  cry  that  rang  through  the  dark 
ness  almost  as  wildly  as  theirs,  and  rushed  into  the  forest. 

"  They  were  congregated  there  in  the  light  of  that  lurid  fire, 
dancing  and  yelling  like  a  troop  of  carousing  demons  ;  their 
tomahawks  and  scalpiug-knives  flashed  before  me,  and  their 
fierce  eyes  glared  more  fiercely  as  I  rushed  through  them  to  the 


14:2  MART      DEKWENT. 

presence  of  their  chief.  The  dance  was  stopped  by  a  motion  of 
his  war-club,  and  he  listened  with  grave  attention  to  my  frantic 
offer  of  beads  or  blankets  or  gold  to  any  amount,  in  ransom  for 
his  prisoners.  He  refused  all  ;  but  one  ransom  could  purchase 
the  lives  of  those  three  human  beings,  and  that  I  could  not  pay. 
It  was  far  better  that  blood  should  be  shed  than  I  should  force 
my  heart  to  consummate  a  union  so  horrible  as  mine  with  this 
savage. 

"  I  turned  from  the  relentless  chief  sorrowing  and  heart- 
stricken.  The  blood  of  his  poor  victims  seemed  clogging  my 
feet  as  I  made  my  way  through  the  crowd  of  savage  forms  that 
only  waited  my  disappearance  to  drag  them  forth  to  death. 
Even  while  I  passed  the  death-fire,  fresh  pine  was  heaped  upon 
it,  and  a  smothered  cry  burst  forth  from  the  dusky  crowd  as  a 
volume  of  smoke  rolled  up  and  revealed  the  victims. 

"  They  were  bound  to  the  trunk  of  a  large  pine,  which  towered 
within  the  glare  of  the  death-fire,  its  heavy  limbs  reddening  and 
drooping  in  the  cloud  of  smoke  and  embers  that  surged  through 
them  to  the  sky,  and  its  slender  leaves  falling  in  scorched  and 
burning  showers  to  the  earth,  whenever  a  gust  of  wind  sent  the 
flames  directly  among  its  foliage. 

"  The  prisoners  were  almost  entirely  stripped  of  clothing,  and 
the  lurid  brightness  shed  over  the  pine  revealed  their  pale  forms 
with  terrible  distinctness.  The  frightened  child  crouched  upon 
the  ground,  clinging  to  the  knees  of  his  mother,  and  quaking  in 
all  its  tiny  limbs  as  the  flames  swept  their  reeking  breath  more 
and  more  hotly  upon  them.  The  long,  black  hair  of  the  mother 
fell  over  her  bent  face;  her  arms  were  extended  downwards  to 
wards  the  boy,  and  she  struggled  weakly  against  the  thongs  that 
bound  her  waist,  at  every  fresh  effort  which  the  poor  thing  made 
to  find  shelter  in  her  bosom.  There  was  one  other  face,  pale 
and  stern  as  marble,  yet  full  of  a  fixed  agony,  which  spoke  of 
human  suffering  frightful  to  behold.  That  face  was  Grenville 
Murray's. 

"  My  feelings  had  been  excited  almost  to  the  verge  of  renewed 


THE    DEATH-FIRE    AND    THE    SACRIFICE.      143 

insanity,  but  now  they  became  calm — calm  from  the  force  of 
astonishment,  and  from  the  strong  resolve  of  self-sacrifice  which 
settled  upon  them.  I  turned  and  forced  my  way  through  the 
crowd  of  savage  forms,  rushing  toward  that  hapless  group,  and 
again  stood  before  their  chief.  I  pointed  toward  the  prisoners 
now  concealed  by  the  smoke  and  eddying  flames. 

"  '  Call  away  those  fiends/  I  said.  '  Give  back  all  that  has 
been  taken  from  the  prisoners.  Send  them  to  Canada  with  a 
guard  of  fifty  warriors,  and  I  will  become  your  wife.' 

"  A  blaze  of  exultation  swept  over  that  savage  face,  and  the 
fire  kindled  it  up  with  wild  grandeur.  I  saw  the  heaving  of  his 
chest,  the  fierce  joy  that  flashed  from  his  eyes,  but  in  that  mo 
ment  of  stern  resolve,  my  heart  would  not  have  shrunk  from  its 
purpose  though  the  fang  of  an  adder  had  been  fixed  in  it.  The 
chief  lifted  his  war-club  and  uttered  a  long  peculiar  cry.  In 
stantly,  the  savages  that  were  rushing  like  so  many  demons 
toward  their  prey,  fell  back  and  ranged  themselves  in  a  broad 
circle  around  their  chief. 

"  He  spoke  a  few  sentences  in  the  Indian  tongue.  Words  of 
energetic  eloquence  they  must  have  been  to  have  torn  that 
savage  horde  from  their  destined  victims,  for  like  wild  beasts 
they  seemed  athirst  for  blood.  When  the  chief  ceased  speaking, 
the  tribe  arose  with  a  morose  gravity  that  concealed  their  disap 
pointment,  and  dispersed  among  the  trees  ;  the  mellow  tramp 
of  their  moccasins  died  away,  and  fifty  warriors  alone  stood 
around  their  chief,  ready  to  escort  the  prisoners  to  a  place  of 
safety. 

"  I  drew  back  beneath  the  concealment  of  a  tree,  and  secure 
in  my  changed  dress,  saw  them  lead  forth  the  prisoners.  I  heard 
the  sobs  of  the  happy  mother  as  the  boy  clung,  half  in  joy  and 
half  in  affright,  to  her  bosom.  I  saw  tears  stand  on  the  pale 
and  quivering  cheek  of  the  father,  as  he  strove  to  utter  his  gra 
titude.  I  heard  the  tramp  of  the  horses,  and  the  measured  tread 
of  the  fifty  warriors  come  faintly  from  the  distance  ;  then  the 
fire  which  was  to  have  been  the  death-flame  of  Grenville  Murray 


144:  MARY      DERWENT. 

and  his  household,  streamed  up  into  the  solitude,  and  in  its  red 
glare  I  stood  before  the  savage  whose  slave  I  had  become." 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE     MARRIAGE     CONTRACT. 

TOWARD  sunset,  on  the  same  day  that  witnessed  Catharine 
Montour's  interview  with  the  missionary,  Mary  Derwent  wander 
ed  alone  into  the  forest,  for  her  spirit  more  than  ever,  felt  the 
need  of  solitude.  With  a  strong  religious  principle,  which  had 
gradually  strengthened  in  her  young  heart  during  her  daily  com 
munion  with  the  high  things  in  nature,  she  had  striven  to  con 
quer  the  sweet  impulses  of  love  that  are  the  heritage  of  woman 
hood,  and  to  lend  all  her  soul  toward  that  heaven  to  which  the  mis 
sionary  had  so  tenderly  pointed  her.  But  with  the  purest  and  best 
of  earth  it  is  hard  to  make  this  life  a  blank  one,  on  which  we  must 
write  only  the  future.  How  could  she  protect  herself  against  feel 
ings  of  whose  approach  she  knew  nothing  ?  How  was  she  to 
stay  the  throbbings  of  a  warm  young  heart,  and  crush  them  into 
subjection  by  thoughts  of  her  own  deformity  ?  Alas,  poor  girl, 
the  general  fate  was  upon  her — but  worse  than  this,  she  was 
unloved.  The  love  of  this  one  man,  like  all  other  good  endow 
ments,  went  to  her  beautiful  sister  Jane.  This  bitter  truth  burned 
like  a  fever  in  her  brain.  Poor  Mary  !  she  had  great  need  of  soli 
tude,  and  greater  need  of  prayer  All  night  long  she  had  prayed 
earnestly  to  that  God  whom  she  had  learned  to  love  through 
his  own  beautiful  works,  for  strength  to  endure  and  power  to 
conquer.  She  took  her  heart,  with  all  its  pure  and  affectionate 
impulses,  and  laid  it  at  the  feet  of  Jehovah,  with  the  beautiful 
and  unquestioning  truthfulness  which  sends  an  infant  to  its 
mother's  bosom  ;  and,  with  the  eloquence  of  a  poetic  and  exalted 


THE      MARRIAGE      CONTRACT.  14:5 

faith,  she  had  won  power  over  her  own  nature.  The  spiritual 
and  subdued  loveliness  of  a  conscience  at  rest  with  itself,  shed  its 
softness  about  her. 

She  wandered  through  the  forest,  indulging  in  a  tranquil  hap 
piness  which  had  never  visited  her  before.  The  flowers  seemed 
smiling  with  a  new  beauty  as  she  turned  aside,  that  they  might 
not  be  trodden  into  the  moss  by  her  footsteps  ;  the  birds  seem 
ed  vocal  with  a  sweeter  music,  and  the  air  came  balmy  to  her 
lips  ;  yet  the  day,  in  reality,  was  no  finer  than  a  hundred  others 
had  been.  The  religious  quietude  of  her  spirit  shed  its  own 
brightness  over  the  face  of  nature.  Her  heart  had  acquired  a 
first  great  conquest  over  itself,  and  there  can  be  no  happiness 
like  a  consciousness  of  moral  right. 

Mary  lingered  awhile  on  the  shelf  of  rocks,  which  we  have 
described  in  a  former  chapter,  as  overhanging  the  Susquehanna, 
nearly  opposite  Monockonok  Island,  before  she  went  down  to 
the  canoe  which  she  had  moored  at  its  base.  It  seemed  as  if 
this  spot  waS  henceforth  to  be  a  scene  of  adventure  to  her,  for 
scarcely  had  she  been  there  a  Ihoment,  when  the  copsewood 
above  her  head  was  agitated,  as  it  had  been  on  the  previous  day, 
and  a  young  man,  of  two  or  three  and  twenty,  stepped  cautiously 
out  upon  the  platform  which  shot  above  the  shelf  on  which  she 
stood,  and  where  the  Indian  girl  had  previously  appeared. 

Mary  sank  back  to  the  birch,  where  she  could  command  a  full 
view  of  his  person  without  being  herself  seen.  He  was  scarcely 
above  the  middle  height,  and  of  slight  person,  but  muscular,  and 
giving,  in  every  firmly-knitted  limb,  indications  of  strength 
greater  than  his  size  would  have  warranted.  The  face  was  one 
which  might  have  been  pronounced  intellectual  and  striking.  His 
forehead,  low  and  broad,  was  shaded  by  hair  of  the  deepest 
brown  ;  the  nose,  a  little  too  prominent  for  beauty,  was  thin  and 
finely  cut,  and  the  large  black  eyes  full  of  brilliancy,  which  was 
a  part  of  themselves  rather  than  a  light  from  the  soul,  gave  a 
masculine  spirit  to  his  head,  which  redeemed  the  more  earthly 
and  coarser  mould  of  the  mouth  and  chin. 

10- 


146  MAET      DERWENT. 

He  was  expensively  dressed  for  the  period  and  condition  of  our 
country,  but  his  neckcloth  was  loosened  at  the  throat,  as  if  to 
refresh  himself  with  air  after  some  severe  physical  exertion,  and 
his  richly-laced  hand-ruffles  hung  dripping  with  water  over  a  pair 
of  wrists  which  were  by  far  too  slender  and  white  ever  to  have  sub 
mitted  to  much  labor.  His  garments  throughout  were  dashed 
with  water-drops,  and  he  had  evidently  been  rowing  hard  upon 
the  river.  He  wiped  away  the  perspiration  which  stood  in  large 
drops  on  his  forehead,  and  looked  cautiously  about,  till  his  eyes 
settled  in  a  long,  anxious  gaze  up  the  stream. 

In  its  side  position  Mary  obtained  a  more  perfect  view  of  his 
face,  and  her  heart  throbbed  with  a  painful  feeling  of  surprise, 
for  she  recognized  the  matured  lineaments  of  Walter  Butler,  a 
Tory  officer,  who  had  visited  the  valley  some  months  before  and 
was  the  intimate  friend  of  young  Wintermoot,  the  young  man 
who  had  so  cruelly  insulted  her  deformity  when  both  were  school 
children.  In  his  previous  visit  Butler  had  by  many  a  rude  out 
rage  and  insolent  speech,  shocked  the  moral  sense  of  the  inhabi 
tants,  and  it  was  an  evil  sign  when  he  and  the  *Wintermoots 
were  sheltered  under  the  same  roof.  The  poor  girl  shrunk  timid 
ly  behind  the  birch,  for  she  was  terrified  and  afraid  of  being  dis 
covered,  but  she  did  not  withdraw  so  far  as  to  prevent  herself 
watching  his  movements. 

After  waiting  a  few  moments,  he  went  down  so  as  to  preclude 
all  possibility  of  being  observed  from  the  island,  and  uttered  the 
same  sharp  whistle  that  had  answered  the  Indian  girl's  summons 
on  the  previous  day.  Mary  almost  started  from  her  concealment 
with  surprise,  when  the  brushwood  was  again  torn  back,  and  a 
strange  woman,  singularly  attired,  stepped  down  on  the  plat 
form,  and  stood  directly  before  the  young  man  as  he  arose  from 
his  stooping  position. 

Butler  started  back  almost  to  the  verge  of  the  precipice,  when 
he  found  himself  thus  unexpectedly  confronted.  His  face  became 
crimson  to  the  temples,  and  he  looked  with  an  air  of  extreme 
embarrassment,  now  on  the  strange  woman,  then  on  the  path 


THE      MARRIAGE      CONTRACT.  14:7 

which  led  from  the  precipice,  as  if  meditating  an  escape.  The 
strange  woman  kept  her  eyes  fixed  keenly  upon  his  movements  ; 
when  he  stepped  a  pace  forward,  as  if  about  to  leave  her  pre 
sence,  she  made  a  detaining  motion  with  her  hand. 

"  You  were  expecting  Tahmeroo,  the  Shawnee  maiden.  I  am 
Catharine  Montour,  her  mother." 

The  blood  suddenly  left  the  young  man's  face.  He  bit  his 
lips  impatiently,  for  a  half  checked  oath  trembled  upon  them  ; 
but  his  confusion  was  too  overwhelming  for  any  attempt  at  an 
answer.  After  a  moment's  pause,  Catharine,  who  kept  her  pier 
cing  gaze  steadily  fixed  on  his  face,  drew  forth  the  string  of  red 
coral  which  had  been  given  to  her  daughter,  and  said  : 

"  Last  night  my  daughter  told  me  all  that  you  bade  her  con 
ceal  ;  from  your  first  meeting  on  the  shores  of  Seneca  Lake, 
down  to  the  crafty  falsehood  of  this  pledge,  I  know,  everything." 

The  crimson  flush  again  spread  over  the  young  man's  face,  his 
eyes  sunk  beneath  the  scrutiny  fixed  upon  him,  and  he  turned  his 
head  aside,  muttering — 

"  The  beautiful  witch  has  exposed  me  at  last,"  then  he  looked 
Catharine  Montour  in  the  face  with  an  affectation  of  cool  effron 
tery,  and  said — 

"  Well,  madam,  if  Tahmeroo  has  chosen  to  confide  in  her 
mother,  I  do  not  see  anything  remarkable  in  it,  except  that  I 
should  be  sought  out  as  a  party  in  the  affair." 

"  Young  man,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  mother,  in  a  voice  of 
stern  and  bitter  anguish,  which  made  even  his  heart  recoil,  "you 
know  not  what  you  have  done — you  cannot  dream  of  the  wretch 
edness  which  you  have  heaped  on  a  being  who  never  injured  you. 
I  can  find  no  words  to  tell  how  dear  that  child  was  to  me,  how  com 
pletely  every  thought  and  wish  was  centred  in  her  pure  existence. 
I  had  guarded  her  as  the  strings  of  my  own  heart — every  thought 
of  her  young  mind  was  pure — every  impulse  an  affectionate  one, 
— I  will  not  reproach  you,  man  1  I  will  try  not  to  hate  you, 
though,  Heaven  is  my  judge,  I  have  just  cause  for  hate.  Listen 
to  me — I  did  iiot  come  here  to  heap  invectives  on  you — " 


148  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  what  you  did  come  for  ?"  inter 
rupted  Butler,  with  a  cool  effrontery,  which  was  now  real,  for  his 
awe  of  Catharine  Montour  abated  when  he  saw  her  sternness 
giving  way  to  the  grief  and  indignation  of  a  wronged  mother. 
"  I  really  am  at  a  loss  to  know  why  you  should  address  me  in  this 
strange  manner.  I  have  not  stolen  the  girl  from  your  wigwam, 
nor  have  I  the  least  intention  of  doing  so  foolish  a  thing.  You 
have  your  daughter,  what  more  do  you  require  !" 

Catharine  Montour  drew  her  lips  hard  together,  and  her 
frame  shook  with  a  stern  effort  to  preserve  her  composure. 

"  I  would  have  justice  done  my  child,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  so 
low  and  calm,  yet  with  such  iron  determination  in  its  tone,  that 
the  young  man  grew  pale  as  it  fell  upon  his  ear  ;  and  though  his 
words  continued  bold,  the  voice  in  which  they  were  uttered  was 
that  of  a  man  determined  to  keep  his  position,  though  he  begins 
to  feel  the  ground  giving  way  beneath  his  feet. 

"  This  demand,  in  the  parlance  of  our  nation,  would  mean  that 
I  should  submit  to  a  marriage  with  the  girl,"  he  said  ;  "  but  even 
her  mother  can  hardly  suppose  that  I,  a  descendant  of  one  of 
England's  proudest  families  should  marry  with  a  Shawnee  half- 
breed,  though  she  were  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  amiable  as  her 
respected  mamma.  You  have  evidently  seen  something  of  life, 
madam,  and  must  see  how  impossible  it  is  that  I  should  marry 
your  daughter,  yet  in  what  other  form  this  strange  demand  is  to 
be  shaped,  I  cannot  imagine." 

Catharine  Montour  forced  herself  to  hear  him  out,  though  a 
scornful  cloud  gathered  on  her  forehead.  Her  lips  writhed,  her 
eyes  flashed  with  the  angry  contempt  which  filled  her  soul  against 
the  arrogance  and  selfishness  betrayed  in  the  being  before  her. 

"  It  is  a  legal  marriage,  nevertheless,  which  I  require  of  you," 
she  said.  "  Listen  before  you  reply — I  have  that  to  offer  which 
may  reconcile  you  even  to  an  union  with  the  daughter  of  a  Shaw- 
nee  chief.  You  but  now  boasted  of  English  birth  and  of  noble 
lineage.  You  are  young,  and  one's  native  land  is  very  dear  ; 
you  should  wish  to  dwell  in  it.  Make  my  daughter  your  wife — 


THE      MARRIAGE      CONTRACT.  149 

go  with  her  to  your  own  country,  where  her  Indian  blood  will 
be  unsuspected,  or,  if  known,  will  be  no  reproach,  and  I  pledge 
myself,  within  one  week  after  your  marriage,  to  put  you  in  pos 
session  of  fifty  thousand  pounds  as  her  dowry — to  relinquish  her 
forever,"  here  Catharine's  voice  trembled  in  spite  of  her  effort  to 
speak  firmly,  "  and  to  hold  communion  with  her  only  on  such 
terms  as  you  may  yourself  direct.  Nay,  do  not  speak,  but  hear 
me  out  before  you  answer. 

"  I  make  this  offer  because  the  happiness  of  my  child  is 
dearer  to  me  than  my  own  life.  I  cannot  crush  her  young  life 
by  separating  her  from  you  forever  ;  better  far  that  I  should 
become  childless  and  desolate  again.  Take  her  to  your  own 
land;  be  a  kind,  generous  protector  to  her,  and  there  is  wealth  in 
England  that  will  make  the  amount  I  offer  of  little  moment. 
For  her  sake  I  will  once  more  enter  the  world,  and  claim  my 
own.  But  deal  harshly  with  her — let  her  feel  a  shadow  of  un- 
kindness  after  you  take  her  from  the  shelter  of  my  love,  and  my 
vengeance  shall  follow  you  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth. 
Give  me  no  answer  yet,  but  reflect  on  the  alternative  should  you 
refuse  one  who  has  but  to  speak  her  will,  and  a  thousand  fierce 
savages  are  on  your  track  by  day  and  by  night,  till  your  heart  is 
haunted  to  death  by  its  own  fears,  or  is  crushed  beneath  the  blow 
which  sooner  or  later  some  dark  hand  will  deal  in  the  requital  of 
the  disgrace  which  you  have  put  upon  the  daughter  of  a  Shawnee.' 

Before  Butler  could  recover  from  his  astonishment  at  her  extra 
ordinary  proposal,  Catharine  had  disappeared  among  the  brush 
wood.  He  stood  as  if  lost  in  deep  thought  for  several  minutes 
after  her  departure,  then  walked  the  platform  to  and  fro  with  an 
air  of  indecision  and  excitement,  which  was  more  than  once  de 
noted  by  a  low  laugh,  evidently  at  the  singular  position  in  which 
he  found  himself  placed.  Once  he  muttered  a  few  indistinct 
words,  and  looked  towards  the  island  with  a  smile  which  Mary 
was  at  a  loss  to  understand.  There  was  something  of  the  plot 
ting  demon  in  it,  which  made  her  tremble  as  if  some  harm  had 
been  intended  to  herself. 


150  MARY      DERWENT. 

When  Catharine  Montour  returned,  Butler  was  the  first  to 
speak.  "  Should  I  be  inclined  to  accept  your  proposal,"  he  said, 
"  and  to  speak  candidly,  your  daughter  is  beautiful  enough  to 
tempt  a  man  to  commit  much  greater  folly  ;  how  can  I  be  cer 
tain  of  your  power  to  endow  her  as  you  promise  ?" 

Catharine  drew  up  her  heavy  sleeve  and  displayed  the  jewelled 
serpent  coiled  around  her  arm. 

"  This  is  some  proof  of  my  power  to  command  wealth  ;  at  the 
encampment  you  shall  be  convinced  beyond  the  possibility  of  a 
doubt." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  be  secure  of  personal  safety,  should  the 
proof  be  insufficient  to  satisfy  me,  or  should  I  see  other  reasons 
to  decline  this  strange  contract  ?  Once  in  the  power  of  your 
savage  tribe,  I  shall  have  but  little  chance  of  independent 
choice." 

Catharine  made  no  reply,  but  a  smile  of  peculiar  meaning  passed 
over  her  face.  She  took  a  small  whistle  from  her  bosom,  blew  a 
shrill  call,  and  stood  quietly  enjoying  the  surprise  of  her  compan 
ion,  as  some  fifty  or  sixty  red  warriors  started  up  from  behind 
the  shattered  rocks  and  stunted  trees  that  towered  back  from  the 
precipice  on  which  they  stood,  each  armed  with  a  rifle  and  with 
a  tomahawk  gleaming  at  his  girdle. 

"Were  compulsion  intended,  you  see  I  am  not  without  power; 
were  I  but  to  lift  this  hand,  you  would  be  in  eternity  before  it 
dropped  to  my  side  again  ;  but  fear  nothing  ;  go  with  me  to  the 
encampment,  and  on  the  honor  of  an  Englishwoman,  you  shall  be 
free  should  I  fail  to  return  and  make  good  my  promise." 

"  You  give  me  excellent  proofs  of  freedom,"  said  the  young 
man,  glancing  at  the  dusky  faces  lowering  on  him  from  the 
shrubbery  on  every  side. 

Catharine  stepped  forward,  and  spoke  a  few  words  in  the 
Indian  tongue.  Directly  each  swarthy  form  left  its  station,  and 
the  whole  force  departed  in  a  body  over  the  back  of  the  preci 
pice.  Directly  a  fleet  of  canoes  was  unmoored  from  the  shelter 
ing  underbrush  that  fringed  the  shore,  and  shot  away  up  stream 


THE      MARRIAGE      CONTRACT.  151 

towards  the  Lackawanna  gap.  When  the  tramp  of  their  reced 
ing  feet  died  away  in  the  forest,  Catharine  returned  to  the  young 
man. 

"  You  must  be  convinced,  now,  that  no  treachery  is  intended  ; 
that  you  are  free  to  decide." 

"  I  do  not  exactly  fancy  the  idea  of  being  forced  to  take  a 
wife,  whether  I  will  or  not ;  and  at  best,  all  this  looks  marvel, 
lously  like  it.  But  without  farther  words,  I  accept  your  proposal, 
on  condition,  however,  that  Tahmeroo  is  suffered  to  remain  with 
her  people  'till  I  may  wish  to  retreat  to  England. 

"  There  is  an  aristocratic  old  gentleman  in  the  valley  of  the 
Mohawk,  who  calls  himself  my  father;  he  might  not  fancy  the 
arrangement,  were  I  to  introduce  my  Indian  bride  to  the  com 
panionship  of  his  wife  and  daughters.  Arrange  it  that  she 
remains  with  the  tribe  for  the  present,  and  settle  the  rest  as  you 
will." 

Catharine  gave  a  joyful  start,  which  she  strove  in  vain  to  sup 
press.  The  happiness  of  keeping  her  child  a  little  longer,  made 
every  nerve  in  her  body  thrill ;  but  she  grew  calm  in  an  instant, 
and  coldly  consented  to  that  which  she  would  have  given  worlds 
to  obtain,  but  dared  not  propose. 

Butler  spoke  again. 

"  Now,  madam,  I  entreat  you  to  return  to  the  camp.  I  give 
my  honor  that  I  will  follow  in  a  half  hour's  time,  but  in  mercy 
grant  me  a  few  minutes  breathing-space.  The  thought  of  this 
sudden  marriage  affects  me  like  a  shower-bath  ;  it  is  like  forcing 
a  man  to  be  happy  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.  Think  of  having 
half  a  dozen  of  those  savage-looking  rascals  for  groomsmen — 
rifles,  scalping-knives,  and  all.  I  wish  my  dear,  stern  old  father 
were  here  to  give  the  bride  away  ;  the  thoughts  of  his  fury  half 
reconciles  me  to  the  thing,  independent  of  the  thousands.  Who, 
under  heavens,  would  have  thought  of  seeking  an  heiress  among 
a  nest  of  Shawiiee  squaws  ?" 

The  latter  part  of  his  speech  was  spoken  in  soliloquy,  for 
Catharine  had  departed  at  his  first  request,  without  any  apparent 


152  MARY     DEKWENT. 

suspicion  of  his  good  faith.  The  concealed  girl  was  both  sur 
prised  and  touched  to  observe  that  tears  were  streaming  down 
the  face  which  had  appeared  so  stern  and  calm  but  a  moment 
before. 

"  She  is  left  to  me  a  little  longer — I  could  have  blessed  him 
when  he  said  it." 

Mary  heard  these  words  as  the  extraordinary  woman  passed, 
and  her  pure  heart  ached  for  the  unhappy  mother. 

Butler  remained  on  the  rock  till  Catharine  Montour  had  en 
tirely  disappeared  ;  then  he  darted  down  the  hill,  and  before 
Mary  dared  to  venture  forth  from  her  concealment,  his  canoe  was 
cutting  across  the  river  toward  Monockonok  Island. 

Mary  stood  almost  petrified  with  astonishment  when  she  saw 
the  direction  he  was  taking.  "  What  had  Walter  Butler  to  do 
in  the  vicinity  of  her  home  ?"  Her  heart  throbbed  painfully  as 
she  connected  this  question  with  the  conversation  which  she  had 
overheard  between  her  sister  and  Edward  Clark,  on  the  previous 
day.  She  stood  motionless  till  his  canoe  shot  into  the  little  cove 
where  her  own  was  always  moored,  and  when  a  sharp  whistle 
sounded  from  that  direction,  she  bent  breathlessly  forward  with 
her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  door  of  her  own  dwelling.  It 
opened,  and  her  sister,  Jane,  came  out  with  her  sun-bonnet  in 
her  hand,  and  walked  swiftly  toward  the  cove. 

But  the  poor  deformed  girl  pressed  her  hands  hard  upon  her 
heart,  and  groaned  aloud,  when  her  suspicions  were  thus  pain 
fully  confirmed.  She  sunk  upon  the  ground,  and  burying  her 
face  in  her  hands,  prayed  fervently  and  with  an  earnestness  of 
purpose  that  brought  something  of  relief  to  her  fears.  For  half 
an  hour  she  sat  upon  the  rock  with  her  pale  face  looking  toward 
the  island,  watching  the  cove  through  the  tears  which  almost 
blinded.  Her  silent,  anxious  sorrow  was  more  like  that  of  an  an 
gel  grieving  over  the  apostacy  of  a  sister  spirit,  than  that  of  a 
mortal  suffering  under  the  conviction  of  moral  wrong  in  a  beloved 
object.  She  saw  her  sister  slowly  return  to  the  house,  and  re 
marked  that  she  stopped  more  than  once  to  look  after  Walter 


SAVAGE      STATESMANSHIP.  153 

Butler,  as  he  urged  his  canoe  toward  the  precipice  again.  Mary 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  held  her  breath,  as  his  foot 
steps  smote  along  the  neighboring  path,  and  were  lost  in  the 
forest.  Poor  child  !  it  seemed  as  if  a  stain  had  been  cast  upon 
the  purity  of  her  own  heart.  She  went  home  reluctantly,  for  the 
confidence  which  had  rendered  their  humble  hearth-stone  a  hap 
py  one,  had  departed  for  ever.  Oh,  what  a  sad  thing  is  suspi 
cion  of  the  moral  worth  of  a  beloved  object.  If  seraphs  could  be 
unhappy,  this  might  make  them  so. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

SAVAGE      STATESMANSHIP. 

CATHARINE  MONTOUR  sat  in  the  door  of  her  lodge  at  the  foot 
of  Campbell's  Ledge.  The  encampment  was  almost  deserted. 
Few  women  ever  followed  the  warriors  when  they  were  called  to 
a  distant  council  fire,  and  the  men  had  gone  into  the  forests  on 
the  opposite  shore  of  the  river,  to  meet  their  brethren  from  the 
Wind-gap.  The  Tories  from  about  Fort  Wintermoot  were  to 
join  the  council,  and  from  her  high  lodge  Catharine  could  see  a 
hundred  council  fires,  gleaming  out  from  the  dense  foliage  which 
clothed  the  opposite  hill. 

The  night  was  overcast,  the  moon  and  stars  floated  in  soft 
gray  vapors  overhead,  or  were  covered  with  black  clouds  some 
times  sending  pale  ghastly  gleams  upon  the  mountains,  and  again 
whelming  everything  in  darkness.  Catharine  was  accustomed 
to  the  gloom  of  the  forest,  and  her  spirit  always  rose  to  meet 
the  storms  that  swept  over  it ;  but  now  there  was  really  no  temp 
est,  nothing  but  sombre  stillness  all  around.  The  winds  mutter 
ed  and  moaned  along  the  mountain  side.  The  waters  rushed 


154:  MAEY     DEE  WENT. 

heavily  down  the  valley,  and  those  council  fires  were  suggestive 
of  scenes  more  gloomy  still.  Like  the  black  clouds  overhead, 
they  were  full  of  brooding  destruction. 

But  more  sombre  than  all  was  the  heart  of  Catharine  Montour. 
On  the  morrow  she  was  to  resign  all  right  over  her  only  child  to 
a  man  against  whom  her  whole  soul  revolted.  A  bad,  cruel  man, 
whose  name  had  even  now  become  a  terror  wherever  his  foot  had 
trod.  She  knew  well  that  his  influence  among  the  Indians  had 
always  been  pernicious  ;  that  as  the  war  of  the  Kevolution  gather 
ed  strength,  he  had  instigated  the  various  savage  tribes  to  parti 
cipate  in  the  contest ;  and  urged  on  cruelties  that  even  savage 
warfare  had  not  yet  invented.  A  thousand  times  would  that  wo 
man  have  died  rather  than  given  her  daughter  up  to  his  wicked 
power,  but  here  her  supremacy  was  at  fault.  Tahmeroo  loved 
the  man,  and  the  mother  had  suffered  so  bitterly  in  her  own  life 
from  thwarted  affection,  that  she  dared  not  interpose  a  stern 
authority  over  the  wishes  of  her  child,  otherwise  the  heathenish 
bond  that  already  united  those  two  persons,  would  have  been 
rent  asunder,  though  she  had  died  in  the  effort. 

But  now  she  had  tenderness  for  her  child,  and  the  savage  am 
bition  of  the  Shawnee  chief  to  contend  against.  It  had  long 
been  his  policy  to  unite  his  daughter  with  some  white  leader  of 
power,  for  he  was  sufficiently  educated  himself  to  feel  how  unfit 
she  would  become  for  the  savage  life  in  which  she  was  born  ;  be 
sides  he  wished  to  strengthen  his  political  alliance  with  the 
whites  and  Col.  John  Butler,  the  father  of  this  young  man,  was 
well  known  to  the  Indians  as  an  officer  of  high  authority  among 
the  Tories.  His  Tioga  Rangers  carried  terror  wherever  they 
went,  and  the  Shawnees  had  fought  side  by  side  with  them  in 
the  Revolution  too  often  for  any  doubt  of  their  leader  or  his  son. 
In  acts  of  bravery,  stern  revenge  and  subtle  diplomacy,  such  as 
the  savages  respected  most,  Walter  Butler  surpassed  his  father  ; 
and  when  Catharine  looked  toward  the  council  fires,  she  knew 
well  that  this  young  man  was  there,  pouring  his  poisonous  counsel 
into  the  listening  ears  of  her  people.  How  terribly  that  poison 


SAVAGE      STATESMANSHIP.  155 

might  work  against  herself,  she  did  not  yet  know.  In  fact  many 
events  had  transpired  in  the  tribe  during  her  absence  from  the 
settlement  on  Seneca  Lake,  of  which  she  was  not  fully  informed. 
Her  grim  mother-in-law,  Queen  Esther,  had  been  busy  during  her 
late  sojourn  in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  and  the  effects  of  her  crafty 
statesmanship  were  felt  among  the  struggling  revolutionists  dur 
ing  the  entire  war.  In  this  bold  bad  youth  the  cruel  woman 
had  found  an  ally,  wicked  and  relentless  as  herself  ;  in  the  war 
councils  of  the  Shawnees,  and  at  the  council  table  of  the  whites, 
he  was  her  firm  supporter. 

Queen  Esther  had  never  forgiven  Catharine's  first  refusal  of  her 
son  ;  the  indignity  galled  her  savage  pride.  To  this  was  added 
jealousy  of  the  influence  and  power  which  the  younger  woman  had 
soon  obtained  over  the  chief  and  his  tribe.  In  the  intelligence, 
beauty,  and  stern  will  of  Catharine,  Queen  Esther  found  a  rival 
whom  she  could  neither  overpower,  despise,  or  intimidate.  Both 
as  a  white  woman  and  an  Indian  princess,  she  soon  learned  to 
regard  her  daughter-in-law  with  intense  hate. 

Like  her  son,  Queen  Esther  had  resolved  to  strengthen  herself 
by  an  alliance  between  Tahmeroo  and  some  partisan  of  her  own. 
The  chief  loved  his  daughter  with  all  the  strength  of  his  rude 
and  poetic  nature,  and  readily  listened  to  any  thing  that  pro 
mised  to  give  her  happiness,  and  which  should  also  forward 
these  purposes. 

When  he  learned  from  the  crafty  old  queen  that  Tahmeroo 
had  met  the  young  white  chief,  Walter  Butler,  on  the  lake 
shore,  while  out  in  her  canoe,  and  that  an  attachment  had 
sprung  up  between  them,  both  his  ambition  and  his  affections 
were  aroused.  Notwithstanding  the  great  influence  that  Catha 
rine  had  obtained  over  him,  the  pride  of  manhood  was  strong 
within  him,  and  his  own  right  of  action  he  yielded  to  no  one. 
In  this  Indian  blood  and  breeding  spoke  out.  Over  his  wife, 
his  child,  and  his  tribe,  he  kept  dominion.  Against  his  will 
even  Catharine  was  powerless. 

When  he  questioned  Tahmeroo,  and  learned  how  completely 


156  MAKY     DEE  WENT. 

the  young  white  man  had  wound  himself  around  her  heart :  when 
Butler  himself,  knowing  well  how  lightly  such  ties  were  regarded 
by  his  own  people,  came  and  asked  his  daughter  in  marriage, 
according  to  the  usages  of  the  tribe,  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  regard 
less  of  the  mother's  absence,  gave  his  child  away,  and  adopted 
the  young  man  as  a  Shawnee  brave.  With  the  Indians  these 
ceremonies  were  solemn  rites — with  Walter  Butler  only  one  of 
the  wild  adventures  he  delighted  in. 

Directly  after  this  heathen  marriage,  that  section  of  the  tribe 
which  inhabited  the  head  of  Seneca  Lake,  went  to  meet  their 
brother  Shawnees,  who  still  remained  on  the  Susquehanna.  A 
swift  runner  was  sent  to  inform  Catharine  Montour  of  the  move 
ment,  and  when  she  rejoined  the  warriors  of  her  tribe,  they  were 
encamped  in  the  Lackawanna  Gap,  where  a  lodge  had  already 
been  erected  for  her. 

On  the  day  of  her  arrival,  and  before  she  knew  anything  of 
these  events,  Tahmeroo  had  stealthily  left  the  camp  and  made 
her  way  down  the  river  in  search  of  Butler.  She  knew  well 
that  some  special  ceremony  was  necessary  to  a  marriage  among 
the  whites,  and  shrunk  with  terror  from  the  very  thought  of 
confiding  what  had  passed  to  her  mother,  till  these  forms  were 
added  to  the  Indian  customs  that  already  united  them. 

Butler  had  pacified  her  entreaties  by  the  gift  of  coral,  which 
Catharine  took  from  under  her  pillow,  and  which  led  to  that 
midnight  explanation,  and  afterward  to  her  interview  with  the 
missionary. 

And  now  the  unhappy  woman  sat  waiting  for  the  time  of  her 
sacrifice  to  arrive.  As  the  shadows  gathered  darker  and  darker 
around  her,  Tahmeroo  stole  softly  to  the  door  and  sat  down  on 
the  turf  at  her  feet;  an  hour  back  Catharine  had  spent  some 
time  in  arraying  her  child  for  the  ceremony  that  was  to  follow 
the  breaking  up  of  the  council.  With  bitter  but  silent  indig 
nation  at  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  her  by  the  chief  and 
his  mother,  she  had  performed  her  task.  Of  all  her  unhappy 
life  this  hour  was  filled  with  the  heaviest  and  deepest  trouble  to 


SAVAGE      STATESMANSHIP.  157 

that  unhappy  woman.  Tahmeroo  nestled  close  to  her  mother, 
took  one  hand  in  hers  very  tenderly,  and  laid  her  cheek  in  the 
palms. 

"  Mother,  why  are  you  so  sad  ?  Tahmeroo  is  very  happy,  but 
when  she  begins  to  smile  this  mournful  look  turns  her  joy  into 
sighs." 

Catharine  turned  her  heavy  eyes  on  that  beautiful  face.  How 
strange  it  looked  !  The  costly  raiment  which  had  displaced 
her  savage  costume,  seemed  unnatural  alike  to  mother  and 
child. 

"And  you  are  truly  happy,  my  child  ?  say  it  again." 

"  Very  happy  1"  answered  the  maiden,  smiling. 

"  And  you  love  this  man  very — very  much  ?" 

"Oh,  so  much,  dear  mother  1" 

"  I  am  glad  of  this,  my  child.  I  have  no  hope  for  you  except 
in  this  love." 

"No  hope  save  in  this  love!  Then  your  whole  life  may  be 
full  of  hope.  Without  this  love,  Tahmeroo  would  die;  for  it 
fills  all  the  world  to  her.  Oh,  mother,  I  did  not  know  how 
beautiful  the  earth  was  till  he  came ;  the  water  down  which  his 
canoe  passes  grows  pure  as  I  look;  if  his  hand  touches  a  flower, 
it  brightens  to  a  star  under  my  eye  ;  the  winter-berries  turn  to 
gold  as  he  gathers  them  for  me;  I  could  kneel  down  and  kiss 
the  moss  which  his  foot  has  walked  over  ;  the  sound  of  his  moc 
casins,  away  off  in  the  forest,  makes  my  heart  leap  for  joy.  Is 
not  this  love,  mother  ?" 

Catharine  sobbed  aloud;  every  sweet  word  that  fell  from  her 
child  brought  its  memory  to  stab  her. 

"  Speak  to  me,  mother  are  you  offended  that  I  love  him  so 
much  ?" 

Catharine  writhed  in  her  chair  ;  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  die. 
Had  she  fled  to  the  wilderness  only  to  crucify  her  heart  over  again 
in  the  person  of  her  child?  Were  the  consequences  of  one  error 
to  follow  her  forever  and  ever  ?  She  lifted  her  clasped  hands  to 
heaven,  and  wildly  asked  these  questions  as  if  the  lurid  stars 


158  MAEY      DERWENT. 

could  answer  her  from  the  blackness  that  covered  them,  "  Are 
you  sorry  that  I  love  him  so  ?"  said  Tahrneroo,  weeping  softly. 

Catharine  buried  her  face  in  both  hands,  while  a  struggle  for 
composure  shook  her  whole  frame. 

"  See,  see,"  whispered  Tahmeroo,  pointing  toward  the  oppo 
site  mountains,  "  the  council  fires  have  gone  out.  There,  now 
that  the  moon  gleams,  I  can  see  their  canoes  on  .the  water.  In  a 
few  moments  he  will  be  here." 

Catharine  looked  suddenly  up. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  taking  Tahmeroo  by  the  hand,  "  we  must 
be  ready." 

As  she  spoke  a  noise  in  the  brushwood  made  her  pause  and 
listen  ;  directly  a  man  came  forward,  walking  quietly  toward  the 
lodge. 

Even  in  the  darkness  Tahmeroo  could  see  that  her  mother 
turned  pale. 

It  was  the  missionary  who,  punctual  to  his  appointment,  had 
found  his  way  to  the  encampment.  He  sat  down  in  the  dim 
lights  of  the  lodge.  No  one  spoke  ;  for  he,  too,  seemed  im 
pressed  by  the  solemn  sadness  of  the  hour.  The  next  ten  min 
utes  were  spent  in  dead  silence — you  could  almost  have  heard 
the  wild  bound  of  Tahmeroo's  heart,  when  sound  of  coming  foot 
steps  came  up  from  the  forest.  Still  no  word  was  spoken.  The 
pine  knots  heaped  on  the  hearth  gleamed  up  suddenly,  and  sent 
a  ruddy  glow  over  the  lodge,  revealing  a  strange,  strange  picture, 

Catharine  Moutour  sat  on  the  couch  of  scarlet  cloth  and  soft 
furs,  robed  in  the  same  dress  which  she  wore  in  the  morning.  Her 
arms  were  folded  over  her  bosom,  and  her  eyes  dwelt  sadly  on  the 
ground,  though  at  every  noise  from  without,  they  were  directed 
with  a  sharp,  anxious  look  towards  the  door,  that  changed  to  a 
dull  troubled  glow,  as  if  the  approaching  footsteps  had  some, 
thing  terrible  in  them. 

Tahmeroo  nestled  to  her  mother's  side,  and  looked  wonder- 
ingly  around  the  lodge  ;  now  upon  the  missionary,  who  sat  in  a 
rude  chair  opposite,  with  his  face  shaded  by  his  hand,  then  on 


THE      CASKET      OF      JEWELS.  159 

her  own  strange  dress,  with  a  sort  of  shy  curiosity  ;  she  did  not 
quite  recognize  herself  in  that  rich  satin  and  those  yellow  old 
laces.  Indeed  her  dress  would  have  been  remarkable  to  any 
one,  either  savage  or  civilized.  Her  Indian  costume  had  been  re 
placed  by  a  robe  of  gold-colored  satin,  of  an  obsolete  but  graceful 
fashion,  which  had  prevailed  twenty  years  before,  in  England. 
A  chain  of  massive  gold  was  interwoven  among  the  braids  of  long 
hair,  for  the  first  time  enwreathed  about  her  beautiful  head,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  whites  ;  and  a  pair  of  long  filagree  ear-rings 
broke  the  exquisite  outline  of  her  throat  on  the  other  side. 

There  was  something  a  little  stiff  and  awkward  in  the  solemn 
stillness  of  those  around  her,  and  in  the  strangeness  of  her  dress, 
which  kept  her  bright  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  sent  the  smile 
quivering  from  her  lips  as  the  tramp  of  feet  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  lodge. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE     CASKET     OF     JEWELS. 

WHILE  the  inmates  of  the  lodge  remained  waiting  in  silent 
anxiety,  a  shadow  fell  across  the  opening,  and  Butler  appeared 
before  them  with  his  clothes  in  much  disorder,  and  evidently  fa 
tigued  from  his  long  walk  through  the  forest. 

Tahmeroo  sprang  impulsively  to  meet  him  ;  the  wild  joy  of  her 
Indian  blood  revelled  in  her  cheek,  and  sparkled  in  her  dark  eyes 
till  they  met  her  mother's  reproving  look,  and  felt  the  pitying 
gaze  which  the  missionary  fixed  upon  her.  Then  she  shrunk 
back  to  her  seat,  blushing  and  trembling  as  if  her  natural  joy  at 
seeing  the  man  she  loved,  were  something  to  be  reproached  for. 

"  Ha,  my  jewel  of  a  red  skin,  have  they  made  you  afraid  of 
me  already  1"  said  Butler,  approaching  her  with  a  reckless  kind  of 


160  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

gaiety  in  Ms  demeanor,  and  without  appearing  to  observe  the 
presence  of  any  one  except  herself — "  but  why  the  deuce  did  you 
allow  them  to  trick  you  out  in  this  manner  ?  You  were  a  thou 
sand  times  more  piquante  in  the  old  dress.  Come,  don't  look 
frightened,  you  are  beautiful  enough  in  anything.  Pray,  what 
are  these  good  people  waiting  for  ?" 

Then  turning  to  Catharine  Montour,  who  had  risen  at  his  bold 
approach,  he  said,  with  insolent  familiarity,  "  Thank  you,  my 
stately  madam,  for  sending  away  your  nest  of  Shawnee  friends, 
though  you  have  made  me  expend  a  great  deal  of  fierce  cour 
age  for  nothing.  I  had  prepared  myself  to  run  the  gauntlet 
bravely  among  the  red  devils.  Thank  you  again — but  I  hope 
my  solemn  father-in-law  is  to  be  present,  I  left  him  camped 
around  a  burning  circle  of  pitch  pine  and  hemlock,  settling  all 
creation  over  his  calumet. 

Catharine  listened  with  a  frowning  brow  to  his  flippant  speech, 
without  deigning  to  answer. 

"  Upon  my  soul  this  is  pleasant,"  said  the  young  man,  turning 
to  the  missionary.  "  I  am  invited  to  my  own  wedding,  but  find 
only  faces  that  would  make  tears  unnecessary  at  a  funeral. 
Faith,  if  this  is  considered  a  cordial  reception  into  the  wigwam 
of  one's  father-in-law,  I'll  retire." 

The  missionary  looked  gravely  in  his  face,  but  did  not  speak  ; 
while  Catharine  arose  with  a  frowning  brow,  and  thrusting  her 
hand  under  the  pillows  of  the  couch,  drew  forth  a  crimson-velvet 
casket,  encrusted  with  gold,  and  set  with  three  or  four  exquisite 
ly  painted  medallions,  each  in  itself  a  gem.  She  then  drew  an 
ebony  box  from  under  the  couch,  and  unlocked  it  with  some  dif 
ficulty,  for  the  spring  turned  heavily  from  disuse.  This  box  she 
proceeded  to  open,  though  her  hands  looked  cold  as  death,  and 
her  face  was  like  marble  as  she  lifted  the  lid. 

Butler  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  movements,  while  he  con 
tinued  his  unbecoming  freedom  of  speech. 

"  Upon  my  honor,"  he  whispered,  glancing  at  the  happy  face 
of  Tahmeroo,  and  drawing  her  towards  him,  "  that  smile  is  re- 


THE      CASKET      OF      JEWELS.  161 

freshing  after  the  gloomy  brow  of  your  august  mother.  Pray, 
my  dear " 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  for  that  instant  the  Shawnee  chief 
swept  aside  the  bear  skin  from  the  door  of  his  lodge  and  stood 
in  the  opening,  with  his  council-robe  gathered  in  cumbrous  dra 
pery  about  his  imposing  person,  and  his  high,  dusky  brow  crowned 
with  a  coronet  of  scarlet  feathers,  whence  a  plume  shot  up  from 
the  left  side  of  his  head.  He  was  entirely  unarmed,  and  held  his 
calumet  loosely  in  his  right  hand. 

With  a  single  stride  he  confronted  the  young  man  so  abruptly, 
that  he  drew  back,  catching  his  breath. 

"  Young  brave,"  he  said,  in  pure,  stern  English,  "  when  the 
chief  of  the  Shawnees  bows  his  head  to  a  woman,  all  other  men 
speak  low  and  look  on  the  ground,  listening  for  her  voice.  .  You 
speak  fast.  Your  words  come  like  the  mountain  brook  that  is 
shallow  and  breaks  into  foam,  which  is  not  good  to  drink.  It  is 
not  well." 

The  stern  grandeur  of  this  rebuke  brought  the  blood  into 
Butler's  face.  He  muttered  something  about  a  cold  reception, 
but  threw  aside  the  flippant  air  which  had  been  so  offensive.  It 
was  not  for  his  interest,  or  safety  either,  to  brave  the  haughty 
Shawnee  in  his  own  encampment. 

Catharine  Montour  came  forward.  She  had  several  old  docu 
ments  in  her  hands,  title  deeds  and  letters  patent,  written  on 
vellum,  with  broad  seals,  and  the  yellow  tinge  of  age  bespeaking 
their  antiquity.  These  documents  she  placed  in  Butler's  hands. 

A  keen,  hungry  greed  broke  into  the  young  man's  eyes  as  he 
read.  Once  or  twice  he  turned  his  look  from  the  parchment  to 
Catharine's  face,  with  increasing  wonder  and  respect. 

"  And  all  this  you  consent  to  resign  in  behalf  of  Tahmeroo," 
he  said,  "  or  rather,  in  behalf  of  her  husband  ?" 

"  So  far  as  the  law  permits,  I  resign  it  to  my  daughter,"  an 
swered  Catharine. 

A  flush  stole  over  the  young  man's  forehead  ;  he  knew  by  her 
voice  that  she  comprehended  all  his  meanness.  But  he  was  now 

11 


162  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

more  anxious  than  Catharine  herself  for  the  ceremony  that  gave 
so  much  wealth  to  his  control ;  and  this  eager  wish  increased 
when  he  saw  the  casket  open  in  her  hand.  She  raised  a  neck 
lace  and  a  bracelet  of  magnificent  diamonds  from  among  the 
gems  which  it  contained,  and  held  them  out  for  his  inspection. 

"  Make  yourself  certain  of  their  value,"  she  said,  in  a  dry, 
business  tone,  that  had  something  of  sarcasm  in  it,  "for  they 
are  the  security  which  I  am  about  to  offer,  that  my  draft  on  Sir 
William  Johnson  shall  be  honorably  met  in  a  week  from  this 
date." 

"  I  see  that  you  intend  to  make  a  business  transaction  of  the 
affair,"  replied  Butler,  carelessly  receiving  the  jewels,  which, 
however,  he  scrutinized  with  a  closeness  which  betrayed  a  rapa 
cious  interest  in  their  worth. 

Catharine  placed  the  casket  in  his  hands  with  a  smile  of  keen 
contempt. 

*'  After  you  are  fully  satisfied  of  their  value,  this  reverend  man 
will  receive  them  in  trust.  He  has  my  sanction  to  deliver  them 
to  you  three  weeks  from  this  day,  should  the  draft  which  you 
hold  in  your  hand  remain  at  the  time  unpaid.  Are  you  content 
with  this  arrangement  ?" 

"  I  know  little  of  the  value  of  jewels,"  replied  Butler,  slowly 
closing  the  casket,  "  but  should  suppose  that  these  might  be  suf 
ficient  security  for  the  money." 

"  Perhaps  this  gentleman's  opinion  will  satisfy  your  doubts," 
and  taking  the  casket  from  Butler's  hand,  Catharine  again 
touched  the  spring  and  held  it  before  the  missionary. 

"  No,  no  ;  I  am  not  a  judge,"  exclaimed  the  missionary,  draw 
ing  back  in  his  chair  and  pushing  the  casket  away  ;  but  after  a 
moment  he  looked  up  more  composedly  and  said,  "  Excuse  me, 
lady,  I  need  not  examine  the  jewels  ;  from  what  I  saw  of  them 
in  the  young  gentleman's  hand,  I  am  certain  that  they  are  worth 
more  than  the  sum  named." 

"  Are  you  convinced  ?"  said  Catharine,  again  turning  to 
Butler. 


THE      CASKET      OF      JEWELS.  163 

"  Perfectly — let  the  ceremony  proceed." 

With  a  kingly  gesture,  the  chief  lifted  the  bear-skin  again,  and 
taking  Tahmeroo  by  the  hand,  led  her  out  upon  the  turf  in  front 
of  her  mother's  lodge.  Here  a  scene  of  wild  grandeur  presented 
itself.  The  whole  encampment  was  surrounded  by  warriors  in 
full  costume,  and  glittering  with  arms.  The  Shawnees  had  risen 
from  their  council  fires,  and  moved  in  single  file  through  the 
woods  to  the  foot  of  Campbell's  Ledge.  Here  they  wound  them 
selves,  rank  after  rank,  round  the  encampment,  till  the  chief  and 
his  family  were  hedged  in  by  a  living  wall.  Those  in  the  front 
rank  held  torches  of  pitch  pine  knots  kindled  at  the  dying  coun 
cil  brands,  which  flamed  up  in  one  vast  girdle  of  fire,  lighting  up 
the  savages  in  their  gorgeous  dresses,  the  dense  forest  trees  in  the 
background,  and  throwing  smoky  gleams  on  the  bold  face  of  the 
ledge  itself. 

The  eyes  of  the  Shawnee  chief  flamed  up  with  natural  triumph 
as  he  stood  upon  the  forest  sward,  which  those  broad  lights  were 
turning  to  gold  under  his  feet,  and,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
motioned  Butler  to  his  side. 

"  White  Brave,"  he  said,  "  two  moons  ago  I  led  my  daughter 
to  your  wigwam,  and,  in  the  face  of  our  tribe,  she  became  your 
wife.  It  was  well.  But  Catharine  Montour  is  not  content  ;  she 
mourns  that  her  child  was  given  away,  and  she  not  there  to 
rejoice.  She  says  that  your  people  have  other  laws,  and  that  a 
wife  given  by  the  Shawnees  is  not  a  wife  with  our  white  fathers. 
Catharine  is  wise,  and  speaks  well.  The  white  brave  shall  make 
Tahmeroo  his  wife  before  his  white  brother  here,  who  takes  his 
law  from  the  Great  Spirit  himself.  Warriors,  draw  near  and 
listen,  while  the  young  white  brave  makes  his  vow." 

The  chief  placed  Tahmeroo's  hand  in  Butler's,  and  grasped 
them  both  in  his  own,  while  he  waved  one  arm  on  high,  thus 
commanding  the  warriors  to  draw  near. 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  savages  ;  rank  glided  into  rank, 
circle  closed  upon  circle,  till  a  triple  ring  of  torches  encircled  the 
young  pair,  and  a  sea  of  waving  plumes,  wild  faces,  and  sharp, 


164:  MARY     DEKWENT. 

glittering  eyes,  surged  back  into  the  forest.  All  this  concourse 
of  men  stood  motionless,  obedient  to  the  lifted  hand  of  their 
chief. 

Catharine  Montour  came  forth  from  the  lodge,  pale  and  rigid, 
as  if  she  were  going  to  execution  ;  after  her,  walked  the  mis 
sionary,  with  a  movement  so  still  that  it  seemed  a  shadow  glid 
ing  over  the  grass.  He  took  his  place  before  the  young  couple, 
opened  his  prayer-book,  and  commenced  the  ceremony.  There 
was  a  slight  delay,  for  Butler  was  unprovided  with  a  ring. 
Catharine  drew  one  from  her  finger,  and  gave  it  to  the  missionary. 
He  touched  her  hand  in  receiving  this  ring.  It  was  cold  as  ice. 

It  was  a  wonderful  sound  in  the  heart  of  that  dense  forest,  the 
voice  of  a  devout  Christian  giving  that  solemn  marriage  bene 
diction,  girded  round  by  savages  who  had  scarcely  ever  heard  of 
the  true  God  in  their  lives.  But  a  stranger  sight  it  was  when 
the  haughty  chief,  the  proud  English  lady,  the  minister,  and  that 
newly  married  couple  sank  gently  to  their  knees,  and  all  that 
tribe  of  savages  fell  to  the  earth  also,  with  their  swarthy  fore 
heads  in  the  dust,  while  the  voice  of  that  good  man  rose  clear 
and  loud,  piercing  the  heavens  with  its  solemn  eloquence.  Even 
the  savages  looked  at  each  other  with  awe,  and  trod  stealthily 
as  they  broke  up  in  bands,  and  moved  back  toward  the  woods. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  holy  hour  ;  for,  though  blood,  flame,  and 
rapine  marked  the  course  of  that  tribe  for  years  after  that  august 
ceremony,  the  Indians  sometimes  grew  less  relentless  when  a  cry 
for  mercy  reminded  them  of  the  marriage  of  their  chief's  daugh 
ter.  When  all  was  over,  the  missionary  departed  noiselessly  as 
he  came.  The  chief  was  disappointed  when  he  looked  round 
and  saw  that  he  was  gone.  He  had  munificently  prepared  a 
present  of  furs  and  wampum,  which  he  desired  to  present,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  whites.  Catharine  Montour  saw  nothing  j  she 
was  still  prostrate  on  the  earth. 

Butler  went  away  soon  after  the  missionary,  scarcely  deigning 
to  make  an  excuse  for  his  absence  or  name  the  time  of  his  return. 
Tahmeroo  gazed  after  him  till  great  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 


THE   CHERRY-TREE   SPRING.       165 

Then  a  sudden  thought — a  quick  pain  ;  and,  while  her  father 
gave  orders  to  his  warriors,  and  her  mother  bowed  herself  in  the 
dust,  she  darted  into  the  woods.  Still  dressed  in  those  singular 
wedding  garments,  she  forced  her  path  through  the  forest  along 
the  mountain  stream,  and  down  the  steep  ramparts  of  Fall 
ing  Spring,  till  she  came  out  upon  the  river.  Fragments  of 
golden  satin  and  rich  lace  were  torn  from  her  dress,  and  left 
clinging  to  brushwood  and  thorns  in  her  passage,  but  she  took 
no  heed  ;  the  Indian  blood  in  her  veins  was  all  on  fire  with  jea 
lousy.  As  she  reached  the  foot  of  Falling  Spring,  a  canoe 
shot  out  from  the  ravine  through  which  its  waters  plunged  to  the 
river.  She  saw  the  waves  glitter  in  its  track,  sprang  downward, 
unmoored  her  own  little  craft,  and  flew  along  the  windings  of  the 
Susquehanna  like  a  sparrow  hawk. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE      CHERRY-TREE      SPRING. 

MARY  DERWENT  returned  home  with  a  mournful  determina 
tion  to  seek  the  confidence  of  her  sister — to  inform  her  frankly 
of  the  knowledge  she  had  obtained,  and,  if  possible,  to  save  her 
from  the  consequences  of  her  unprincipled  encouragement  of 
Walter  Butler,  when  her  faith  was  pledged  to  another. 

She  found  Edward  Clark  and  her  sister  seated  by  the  only 
glazed  window  of  the  cabin,  conversing  cordially  as  usual.  But, 
as  the  evening  wore  on,  she  observed  that  Jane  grew  petulant 
and  restless.  Two  or  three  times  she  went  to  the  door,  looked 
out  hurriedly,  and  returned  without  any  obvious  reason.  She 
would  not  sit  down  by  Clark  again,  but  when  he  addressed  her, 
answered  him  impatiently,  as  if  his  society  had  all  at  once 
become  irksome. 


166  MAEY      DEE  WENT. 

Once  Edward  made  some  allusion  to  a  farm  which  his  father 
had  promised  to  give  him  when  he  settled  for  life,  and  spoke  of 
the  kind  of  house  he  intended  to  build,  asking  Jane's  opinion. 

She  answered  abruptly,  that  she  was  tired  of  farming  and 
hard  work  of  all  kinds;  indeed,  she  hoped  the  time  would  come 
when  she  need  not  be  obliged  to  live  in  a  log-house,  and  spoil 
her  hands  by  washing  dishes  from  morning  till  night. 

Young  Clark  looked  a  little  surprised  at  this  sudden  outbreak 
of  discontent,  but  laughingly  told  the  spoiled  beauty  that  she 
should  have  a  two-story  frame-house,  with  glass  windows  in 
every  room,  when  his  ship  came  in  from  the  moon,  and  the 
Indians  were  all  driven  from  Wyoming. 

Jane  was  about  to  return  some  saucy  reply,  but  that  instant 
a  shrill  whistle  came  up  from  the  river,  which  brought  a  torrent 
of  crimson  into  her  face,  and  she  looked  wistfully  at  the  door 
without  daring  to  approach  it. 

Mary  understood  it  all,  and  her  pure  heart  ached  within  her. 
She  blushed  even  more  deeply  than  her  sister;  and  when  Jane 
attempted  to  speak  carelessly  of  night  birds  which  roosted  on 
the  island,  her  face  grew  troubled  like  that  of  an  angel  who  sees 
a  beloved  companion  ready  to  fall. 

Clark  observed  this  embarrassment  without  suspecting  its 
cause,  while  Mother  Derwent  droned  on  with  her  flax  wheel, 
and  talked  about  the  comfort  of  living  upon  an  island  where  the 
wolves  could  only  bark  at  you  from  the  opposite  shore,  thus 
unconsciously  aiding  in  her  granddaughter's  deception. 

After  a  time,  Clark  mentioned  Walter  Butler,  and  observed 
that  he  had  seen  him  on  the  river  that  day;  something  in  Jane's 
manner  seemed  to  excite  his  attention  that  moment,  for  he  asked 
a  little  suspiciously,  if  the  young  tory  had  landed  on  the  island. 

Jane  crimsoned  to  the  temples  again,  but  answered  promptly, 
that  she  had  not  seen  Mr.  Butler  in  a  week — that  was,  since  her 
birth-day. 

This  direct  falsehood  smote  Mary  to  the  heart;  tears  swelled 
to  her  eyes  till  she  could  hardly  discern  the  beautiful  face  of  her 


THE      CHEEKY-TREE      SPRING.  167 

sister  through  their  mist.     Falsehood!  falsehood  I  what  love  can 
outlive  that  ? 

Filled  with  these  unquiet  thoughts,  Mary  went  to  her  little 
bedroom  that  she  might  weep  and  pray  alone.  As  she  closed 
the  door,  her  bister  was  asking  Edward  Clark  how  far  it  was 
from  Wyoming  to  Canada,  and  if  all  the  handsome  ladies  there 
wore  silk  dresses  and  had  hired  people  to  wait  on  them  ? 

Mary  closed  the  door  and  went  to  bed,  but  she  could  not 
sleep;  for  the  first  time,  the  sweet  voice  of  her  sister,  as  it 
sounded  through  the  thin  partition,  brought  disquiet  to  her 
affectionate  heart.  She  heard  Edward  Clark  leave  the  house 
about  ten  o'clock,  but  it  was  more  than  an  hour  before  Jane 
came  to  bed.  When,  at  length,  she  felt  the  familiar  touch  of 
her  cheek,  it  was  heated  with  feverish  thought.  The  deformed 
lay  within  her  sister's  arms,  apparently  asleep,  but  deliberating 
on  the  most  effectual  method  of  opening  the  subject  which  lay 
so  heavily  on  her  heart,  when  that  whistle  which  had  haunted 
her  footsteps  continually  since  the  night  before,  again  sounded 
from  the  cove  with  a  shrillness  that  cut  to  her  heart  like  a  dag 
ger.  Jane  caught  her  breath,  rose  suddenly  to  her  elbow,  and 
listened,  while  her  frame  trembled  till  it  shook  the  bed.  After 
a  few  minutes,  during  which  the  whistle  sounded  sharply  again, 
she  crept  softly  from  the  bed,  put  on  her  clothes,  and  stole  from 
the  house.  Mary  was  so  shocked  and  confounded,  that  it  was 
several  minutes  before  she  could  collect  her  thoughts  sufficiently 
to  decide  what  course  to  pursue.  At  last  she  arose,  and  hastily 
dressing  herself,  ran  down  to  the  cove. 

The  trees  hung  in  leafy  quiet  over  the  green  sward,  and  the 
moonbeams  shed  their  radiance  on  the  waters  as  they  rippled 
against  the  bank;  no  human  being  was  in  sight,  but  a  strange 
canoe  lay  rocking  at  its  mooring  by  the  side  of  her  own,  and  the 
murmur  of  distant  voices  came  faintly  from  the  direction  of  a 
spring  which  supplied  the  household  with  water. 

It  was  a  fairy  nook,  the  spring  to  which  Mary  bent  her  steps; 
rocks,  covered  with  velvet  moss,  were  piled  about  it,  and  a  clump 


168  MARY      DERWENT. 

of  crab-apple  and  wild-cherry  trees  interlaced  their  boughs,  and 
mingled  their  white  and  rose-colored  blossoms  above  it  in  their 
season;  as  the  summer  advanced,  the  black  cluster  and  the 
green  apple  hung  in  ripening  beauty  over  the  creeping  plants 
and  modest  wild-flowers  that  enamelled  the  moss,  and  fringed 
the  rivulet  which  stole  from  the  rocky  basin  of  the  spring  with 
a  cool,  murmuring  sound. 

The  moonlight  lay  full  on  the  overhanging  trees  as  Mary 
approached,  and,  in  the  stillness,  the  voices  she  had  heard, 
became  each  moment  more  distinct.  She  paused  in  the  shadow 
which  fell  across  the  footpath  where  it  curved  down  into  the 
little  hollow.  Her  sister,  Jane,  was  sitting  on  a  rock  just  within 
the  moonlight,  which  flickered  through  the  boughs  above,  and 
by  her  side,  with  her  hand  in  his,  was  Walter  Butler. 

He  was  speaking,  and  Mary's  heart  swelled  with  indignation, 
as  she  listened  to  his  words — 

"  Take  your  choice,"  he  said,  "  remain  here  and  become  the 
wife,  the  drudge  of  Edward  Clark — condemn  these  beautiful 
hands  to  perpetual  toil;  milk  his  cows,  cook  for  his  workmen, 
be  content  with  the  reward  of  a  homespun  dress,  now  and  then, 
to  set  off  this  form,  which  a  king  might  look  upon  with  admira 
tion;  accept  this  miserable  life  if  you  choose.  But  do  not  pass 
by  the  offer  I  make,  without  thought;  for  it  is  wealth,  ease,  lux 
ury,  in  fact,  everything  that  beauty  craves,  against  neglect  and 
drudgery.  I  offer  the  heart  of  a  man  who  knows  how  to  esti 
mate  your  beauty — who  will  deck  it  in  gold  and  robe  it  in  silks 
— who  will  provide  servants  to  do  your  bidding,  and  surround 
you  with  such  elegance  as  you  never  dreamed  of.  It  is  no  idle 
promise,  Jane,  for  I  have  become  rich,  very  rich,  independent 
of  my  father.  What  are  you  crying  for  ?  can  I  offer  more  than 
this  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  the  infatuated  girl,  "  I  was  thinking  of  poor 
old  grandma — and  dear,  dear  Mary;  what  will  they  do  when  I 
am  gone — what  will  Edward  Clark  think  of  me  ?" 

"  Edward  Clark  again  !  and  that  old  woman  and  selfish  girl 


THE      CHEKEY-TKEE      SPRING.  169 

who  have  made  you  a  slave.  Will  you  never  stop  whimpering 
about  them  ? — have  I  not  promised  that  you  shall  send  them 
money  ?" 

"  They  would  not  take  it  ;  I  am  sure  they  would  not  touch  a 
cent  of  your  money.  Indeed,  I  cannot  help  feeling  bad  when  I 
think  of  leaving  them  in  this  manner.  When  we  are  married, 
you  will  bring  me  back  sometimes,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  we  are  married  I  will  certainly  bring  you  to  see 
them  ;  have  no  fear  of  that.  It  is  now  past  twelve,  and  we 
must  be  many  miles  hence  before  daybreak.  Come,  dry  these 
tears  and  go  with  me  to  the  canoe — we  are  losing  time — what 
good  is  there  in  all  these  tears  ;  they  only  spoil  your  beauty  ; 
come,  come." 

As  Butler  spoke,  he  placed  his  arm  round  the  weeping  girl, 
and  drew  her  with  some  violence  along  the  footpath  ;  but  they 
had  scarcely  reached  the  bend  which  led  into  the  open  moonlight 
when  Mary  Derwent  stood  in  the  way. 

"  The  little  Hunchback,  by  all  the  furies  !"  exclaimed  Butler, 
girding  the  waist  of  his  companion  with  a  firm  arm  and  attempt 
ing  to  drag  her  forward,  though  she  struggled  in  his  embrace, 
and  with  tears  and  sobs  entreated  him  to  free  her. 

"  Jane — sister  1  you  will  not  go  with  this  wicked  man  ;  listen 
to  me  before  you  take  this  dreadful  step  !  Ask  him  where  he 
obtained  the  money  which  he  but  now  boasted  of.  Jane,  I  have 
never,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life,  told  you  a  falsehood.  Be 
lieve  me  now — this  wicked  man  dares  not  deny  what  I  say.  He 
is  another  woman's  husband  !  I  heard  him  make  the  promise — 
I  saw  him  on  his  way  to  perform  that  promise  1  Jane,  it  is  a 
married  man  for  whom  you  were  about  to  forsake  us.  Let  him 
deny  it  if  he  dare." 

"  Out  of  my  path,  lying  imp,  before  I  trample  your  shapeless 
carcass  under  my  feet,"  cried  Butler,  through  his  shut  teeth. 

But  the  undaunted  girl  kept  her  station,  and  her  steady  voice 
told  how  little  effect  his  taunt  on  her  deformity  had  made. 

"  I  have  told  no  lie,"  she  exclaimed  boldly,  "  and  you  dare  not 


170  MARY      DEKWENT. 

accuse  me  of  it.  Last  evening  I  heard  all  that  passed  between 
you  and  the  strange  white  woman  who  lives  among  the  Shaw- 
nees.  Jane,  look  in  that  face.  Is  there  no  guilt  there  ?" 

"  You  do  not  believe  this,"  said  Butler,  still  attempting  to 
draw  the  wretched  girl  away. 

"  Yes,  I  do  I"  cried  Jane,  with  sudden  vehemence,  and  leaping 
from  his  grasp,  she  flung  her  arms  around  Mary  where  she  stood, 
and  urged  his  departure  with  a  degree  of  energy  that  he  could 
no  longer  contend  against.  Baffled  and  full  of  rage,  he  loaded 
them  both  with  bitter  imprecations,  and  pushed  out  into  the 
stream.  Locked  in  each  other's  arms,  the  sisters  saw  him  de 
part  ;  one  shedding  tears  of  penitence  and  shame,  the  other  full 
of  thanksgiving. 

As  they  stood  thus,  unable  to  speak  from  excess  of  feeling, 
the  young  vines  were  torn  apart  just  above  them,  a  pair  of 
glittering  eyes  looked  through,  and  a  voice  that  made  them  cling 
closer  to  each  other,  broke  upon  the  night,  sharp  and  wild  as 
the  cry  of  an  angry  bird. 

"  Look  up,  that  I  may  see  the  pale  face  that  comes  between 
Tahmeroo  and  her  love  I" 

With  a  wild  bound,  that  tore  the  vines  before  her  into  shreds, 
Tahmeroo  leaped  down  among  the  loose  rocks,  and  seizing  Jane 
Derwent  by  the  shoulder,  dragged  her  up  the  path  into  the 
moonlight ;  for  the  clouds  that  had  tented  her  wedding  with  their 
gloom  were  swept  away  now,  leaving  the  sky  clear,  full  of  stars, 
and  pearly  with  the  glow  of  a  full  moon. 

Jane  Derwent  shrunk  and  cowered  under  those  flashing  eyes. 
She  was  forced  to  her  knees  among  the  stones,  and  held  there, 
while  Tahmeroo  perused  her  face,  lineament  by  lineament,  as  if 
it  had  been  a  book  in  which  her  own  destiny  was  written.  A 
fierce,  angry  fire  burned  in  those  black  eyes,  and  that  mouth,  so 
beautiful  when  it  smiled,  writhed  and  trembled  with  terror, 
gcorn,  and  bitter,  bitter  hate.  She  clutched  her  hand  on  the 
poor  girl's  shoulder  till  its  nails  penetrated  the  skin  ;  with  the 
other  hand  she  groped  at  her  girdle,  and  drew  a  knife  from  its 


THE   CHEKRY-TKEE   SPRING.       171 

glittering  sheath,  at  her  side;  for  this  remnant  of  her  savage 
dress  she  still  retained. 

Jane  crouched  down  to  the  earth,  shielding  herself  with  both 
uplifted  hands  ;  her  shrieks  rang  out,  one  upon  another,  till  the 
opposite  rocks  echoed  them  back  like  demons. 

This  terror  exasperated  the  young  Indian  to  still  keener  mad 
ness.  She  drew  back  the  knife  with  a  force  that  lifted  her  clear 
of  the  form  grovelling  at  her  feet,  the  next  instant  it  would 
have  been  buried  in  the  white  neck — but  Mary  Derwent  sprang 
upon  her,  seized  the  uplifted  arm  and  dragged  it  downward. 

"Would  you  kill  her?  This  is  murder — she  has  never 
wronged  you  \" 

Tahmeroo's  rage  broke  fearfully  over  the  gentle  girl  as  she 
clung  to  her  arm  ;  for  one  instant  it  seemed  checked  by  the 
agony  of  that  lovely  face  ;  but  another  cry  from  Jane  brought 
the  fury  back  ;  her  eyes  rained  fire  ;  she  tore  her  arm  from  the 
grasp  of  those  poor  little  hands  ;  again  the  knife  quivered  on 
high — again  she  drew  back  to  give  a  sure  blow. 

But  a  stronger  arm  than  Mary's  grasped  her  now.  The  knife 
was  torn  from  her  with  a  force  that  sent  her  reeling  down  the 
bank — its  blade  flashed  over  her,  struck  with  a  sharp  clink 
against  the  stones,  rebounded  and  plunged  into  the  spring,  send 
ing  up  a  storm  of  diamonds  as  it  fell. 

"  Tahmeroo — woman — squaw — how  dare  you  touch  this  girl  1" 

Butler  lifted  Jane  from  the  earth  as  he  spoke,  and  holding 
her  with  one  arm,  thus  confronted  his  young  wife,  as  she  rose 
from  the  stones  where  he  had  dashed  her. 

She  could  not  speak  ;  her  face  was  blanched  ;  specks  of  foam 
settled  on  her  marble  lips  ;  her  eyes  were  lurid  with  smould 
ering  fire,  and  all  her  limbs  quivered  like  those  of  a  dying 
animal. 

At  last  her  voice  broke  forth. 

"  You  have  struck  Tahmeroo,  and  for  her." 

Something  more  than  anger  spoke  in  that  voice — it  had  the 
dull  hollow  sound  of  desolation. 


172  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  Squaw — traitoress — half-breed  1 — go  back  to  your  wigwam, 
before  I  lay  you  dead  at  the  girl's  feet  !" 

The  Indian  girl  withered  under  this  fiendish  speech  ;  she  fell 
forward,  grovelling,  with  her  face  to  the  earth,  and  lay  there  like 
a  drift  of  autumn  leaves,  through  which  the  wind  is  moaning. 
Her  lamentations  broke  forth  in  the  Indian  tongue,  but  the  tones 
were  enough  to  win  tears  from  marble. 

Mary  Derwent  knelt  down  and  took  the  drooping  head  upon 
her  lap  ;  the  anguish  in  that  face  as  it  was  turned  to  the  moon 
light,  went  to  her  gentle  soul. 

"  Oh,  me,  you  have  killed  her,  cruel,  cruel  man  I"  she  said, 
lifting  her  eyes  to  the  lowering  face  of  Butler,  who  was  striving  to 
re-assure  Jane  Derwent,  passing  by  the  sufferings  of  his  wife  with 
reckless  scorn.  "  She  cannot  speak,  every  breath  is  a  moan." 

"  Let  her  rest  then  ;  no  one  wants  her  to  speak,  the  young 
tigress  1  My  poor  Jane,  the  dagger  was  quivering  over  you  when 
I  came  up.  I  shudder  to  think  what  might  have  happened  but 
for  your  cries;  had  I  been  a  little  farther  off,  your  cries  could  not 
have  reached  me,  and  I  should  have  lost  you  eternally.  Look  up, 
dear  one,  now  that  I  have  saved  your  life  it  is  mine,  all  mine." 

Tahmeroo  evidently  heard  these  words  ;  she  struggled  to 
get  up,  but  sunk  back  again,  moaning  out,  "no,  no,  Tahmeroo 
is  his  wife  1" 

"  You  hear,"  said  Mary  Derwent,  looking  up  at  her  sister,  who, 
still  trembling  with  terror,  clung  to  young  Butler  with  all  her 
strength,  and  seemed  soothed  by  his  expressions  of  tender  in 
terest.  "  This  poor  girl  is  his  wife,  his  cruel  words  are  killing 
her.  Leave  his  arms,  sister  ;  stand  up  alone,  and  look  upon  the 
woman  you  have  both  wronged,  asking  God  to  forgive  you  !" 

"  Come,  come,  with  me  now.  Let  the  crooked  little  witch 
preach  on.  You  are  not  safe  here — the  moment  I  leave  you,  this 
pretty  fiend  will  find  her  knife  again.  She  will  not  let  you  live  a 
week.  See  how  your  sister  tends  her  as  if  she,  not  you,  had  been 
hurt  !  Leave  them  together,  sweet  one,  we  can  reach  the  canoe 
before  they  miss  us.  I  shall  leave  Wyoming  at  once.  Horses  are 


THE      MERITED      LESSON 


173 


ready  for  us  down  at  Aunt  Polly's  tavern  ;  before  daylight  we 
shall  reach  the  Blue  Mountains." 

Butler  whispered  these  words  into  Jane  Derwent's  ear,  draw 
ing  her  down  to  his  side  as  he  spoke,  and  enforcing  his  intreaties 
with  covert  caresses. 

Half  overcome  with  terror,  half  with  these  entreaties,  the  un 
happy  girl  yielded  herself  to  the  power  of  his  arm,  and  they  both 
fled  towards  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE     MERITED     LESSON. 

TAHMEROO  heard  the  movement,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  away, 
almost  throwing  Mary  down  the  steep,  with  her  first  impetuous 
leap. 

Recovering  from  the  shock,  Mary  followed  her,  calling  despe 
rately  after  her  sister. 

In  his  hurry  to  reach  the  spring,  Butler  had  dragged  his 
canoe  half-way  up  the  bank,  and  it  took  a  few  moments  to  shove 
it  into  the  water  again.  Frightened  and  weak,  Jane  had  seated 
herself  on  a  loose  boulder,  and  eagerly  watched  him  as  he  tugged 
at  the  little  craft.  By  this  time,  Tahmeroo  confronted  her  hus 
band,  dragged  the  canoe  desperately  from  his  hold,  and  with  the 
strength  of  a  lioness,  sent  it  shooting  into  the  river. 

The  canoe  was  out  of  reach  in  a  moment — for  the  quick  cur 
rent  seized  it,  and  it  was  soon  dancing  down  its  own  silver  path 
on  the  "  broken  waters,"  leaving  the  baffled  villain  and  his  vic 
tim  helpless  on  the  shore. 

Butler  ground  his  teeth.  If  he  did  not  again  load  the  poor 
Indian  with  rude  epithets,  it  was  from  excess  of  rage.  Tahmeroo 
was  neither  fierce  nor  weak  now.  The  iron  of  her  nature  was 


174:  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

taking  its  white  heat ;  all  the  fiery  sparks  had  been  shot  forth, 
but  she  was  dangerous  to  trifle  with  just  then,  even  without 
arms,  and  so  still. 

Mary  was  pleading  with  her  sister. 

"  You  are  wronging  her,  degrading  yourself — throwing  away 
your  good  name  forever,"  she  said.  "  The  poor  feeling  he  calls 
love  was  given  to  her  once,  and  you  see  how  he  outrages  her 
now.  Even  though  he  had  the  power  to  make  you  his  wife,  her 
fate  would  be  yours,  Jane." 

Jane  turned  her  back  upon  the  gentle  pleader,  repulsing  her 
with  both  hands. 

"That  young  Indian  is  not  his  wife,  I  say,"  she  answered 
petulantly,  and  weeping,  as  much  from  annoyance  as  any  re 
morseful  feeling.  "  It  takes  something  more  than  a  savage  pow 
wow  in  the  woods  to  bind  an  officer  of  the  king.  What  does  it 
amount  to  if  she  does  call  herself  his  wife  !" 

"  Nothing,  nothing  whatever,"  said  Butler,  interposing,  while 
Tahmeroo  stood  proudly  silent.  "Such  contracts  never  last 
beyond  the  moon  in  which  they  are  formed.  If  the  Shawnee 
chief  would  insist  on  giving  me  his  daughter,  am  I  to  blame  ? 
Such  hospitality  is  a  habit  of  his  tribe." 

"  And  dare  you  say  that  this  is  all  the  bond  which  unites  you 
with  this  poor  girl  ?"  questioned  Mary  with  great  dignity. 

"  Dare  I  say  that  ? — of  course  I  dare.  She  knows  it  well  enough 
— can  you  think  me  a  fool  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  a  voice,  which  made  the  audacious  young  man 
start,  "  if  cruelty  and  falsehood  are  folly,  you  are  the  worst  of 
fools.  How  dare  you  stand  up  in  the  face  of  high  heaven  and 
disclaim  vows  yet  warm  on  your  lips  ?  Jane  Derwent,  for  your 
father's  sake  believe  me.  This  very  evening  I,  invested  with 
sacred  power  by  the  church,  married  Walter  Butler  to  this  young 
girl.  He  came  from  the  Lodge,  where  this  ceremony  was  per 
formed,  directly  here.  I  was  myself  coming  to  the  Island,  think 
ing  to  rest  in  your  cabin  till  morning,  but  his  arm  was  strongest 
and  he  reached  the  shore  first." 


THE      MERITED      LESSON.  175 

"  You  hear  him — you  will  believe  this  now  I"  said  Mary  ten 
derly,  leaning  over  her  sister. 

Jane  began  to  sob. 

"  What  is  the  difference,  supposing  he  speaks  the  truth  1"  said 
Butler,  also  bending  over  her,  "  I  love  you,  and  have  the  means 
of  performing  all  my  promises.  Who  will  know  or  care  about 
this  forest  hawk  in  our  world  ?" 

Jane  Derwent  was  weak  and  miserably  vain,  but  not  vicious. 
Butler  had  enlisted  no  really  deep  feeling  in  his  behalf.  Indeed, 
but  for  her  terror  of  the  Indian  girl,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  would 
have  followed  him  to  the  shore.  She  had  been  taught  from  child 
hood  up,  to  regard  the  missionary  with  reverence,  and  never  for 
an  instant  dreamed  of  doubting  his  word.  Arising  with  an 
angry  gesture,  she  put  Butler  aside  and  submitted  herself  to  the 
caressing  arm  of  her  sister. 

"  Go  to  your  wife,"  she  said,  with  a  burst  of  mortification. 
"  She  is  only  too  good  for  you.  I  am  sorry  for  her  and  despise 
you — a  pretty  creature  you  intended  to  make  of  me." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear.  It  was  the  Lord  that  made  you  a 
pretty  creature  to  begin  with,  or  I  should  never  have  troubled 
my  head  about  you.  After  all,  I  dare  say  the  whole  thing  would 
have  turned  out  more  plague  than  pleasure." 

"Or  profit  either,"  said  the  missionary,  with  the  nearest  ap 
proach  to  sarcasm  that  his  heavenly  voice  or  features  could  ex 
press.  "  Remember,  for  the  present,  I  am  that  poor  girl's  trus 
tee  ;  wrong  her  by  another  word,  and  the  draft  upon  Sir  John 
Johnson  shall  be  cancelled.  Before  morning,  I  will  deliver  it 
back  with  the  casket  of  jewels  in  ray  bosom,  to  the  lady,  whose 
munificence  you  have  abused.  Gold  cannot  re-kindle  the  love 
that  would  give  happiness  to  this  unfortunate  child,  but  it  shall 
save  her  from  cruelty." 

"  Upon  my  word,  old  gentleman,  you  should  have  been  a  law 
yer;  among  that  hive  of  red  skins  up  yonder.  I  really  thought 
praying  your  vocation,  but  you  are  rather  hard  upon  my  harmless 
enterprise.  I  only  wanted  to  torment  little  hunchback  here,  who 


176  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

has  been  following  me  round  like  a  wildcat  the  whole  week  ; 
there  was  nothing  serious  in  the  matter  I  assure  you,  upon  the 
honor  of  a  gentleman." 

The  missionary  regarded  him  for  a  moment  in  dead  silence  ; 
the  audacity  of  this  falsehood  was  something  new  to  him.  It  is 
probable  he  would  have  rebuked  this  coarse  attempt  at  deception, 
but  Tahmeroo  came  proudly  up  at  the  instant,  and  for  her  sake 
he  refrained. 

During  this  entire  conversation  the  Indian  bride  had  kept 
aloof,  standing  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  cove  ;  as  she  moved 
towards  them  Butler's  last  speech  fell  upon  her  ear.  She  drew  a 
deep  breath,  and  listened  for  more.  The  light  shone  full  upon 
her  face  ;  it  was  pale,  but  very  beautiful,  with  the  new  hope  his 
words  had  aroused — her  eyes  shone  like  stars.  All  the  spirit  of 
her  fathers  lay  in  the  movement  of  that  slender  form.  With 
the  elasticity  of  sudden  hope  she  came  back  to  her  old  life. 

Butler  was  eager  to  retaliate  upon  Jane,  to  convince  the 
missionary  and  appease  his  bride.  With  that  quick  transition  of 
manner  which  rendered  him  almost  irresistible  at  times,  he  meet 
Tahmeroo  half  way. 

"  There,"  he  said,  holding  out  both  hands,  "  have  I  punished 
you  enough,  my  fiery  flamingo?  Did  you  think  I  could  not  see  that 
you  were  following  my  canoe  all  the  time  ?  But  for  that,  I 
should  have  been  in  the  fort  long  ago  ;  why,  child,  had  it  not 
been  for  my  seeming  wrath,  you  would  have  killed  that  silly  girl 
yonder,  and  that  would  have  set  every  patriot  in  the  valley  on 
your  track." 

She  stood  looking  at  him,  the  haughtiness  dropped  away  from 
her  figure,  and  her  lips  began  to  tremble. 

"Tahmeroo's  heart  is  like  a  white  flower  on  the  rocks;  it 
opens  to  the  rain,  but  folds  itself  close  when  thunder  comes,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  Speak  again,  that  she  may  know  how  to  answer." 

He  knew  that  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot ;  that  a 
passionate  outbreak  of  forgiveness  lay  under  those  figurative 
words. 


THE      MERITED      LESSON.  ITT 

"  What  shall  I  say,  Tahmeroo  ? — what  is  there  to  explain, 
where  two  people  love  each  other  as  we  do  ?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  then — she  gathered  both  his  against 
her  heart,  that  he  might  feel  how  loudly  it  was  beating. 

Butler  cast  a  triumphant  look  on  Jane.  It  pleased  him  that 
she  witnessed  the  passionate  love,  the  ready  forgiveness,  of  that 
spirited  young  creature. 

"  Did  you  think,  sir,"  he  said,  leading  his  bride  up  to  the  mis 
sionary,  "that  any  man  could  earnestly  seek  another  while  a 
being  like  this  belonged  to  him  ?" 

Poor  Jane,  she  was  no  match  for  the  audacity  of  this  man, 
but  fairly  burst  into  tears  of  mortified  vanity.  It  was  a  salutary 
lesson,  which  no  one  wished  to  render  less  impressive  than  it 
proved. 

Tahmeroo  stood  by  her  husband  in  silence.  All  her  sensitive 
modesty  had  returned,  and  she  was  restless  like  a  wild  bird  eager 
to  get  back  to  its  cage. 

The  missionary  did  not  reply.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  what 
had  gone  before,  and  stood  mournfully  gazing  on  that  young  face. 

"  God  be  thanked  if  I  have  saved  her  one  pang,"  he  mur 
mured,  in  answer  to  some  thought  that  arose  at  the  sight  of  her 
beauty. 

But  the  young  man  became  impatient. 

"  Tahmeroo  waits  to  take  leave  of  you,  reverend  sir.  I  trust 
this  reckless  escapade  has  done  us  no  harm  in  your  good  opinion. 
The  young  lady  there  will  tell  you  it  was  but  a  wild  freak  to 
annoy  her  sister,  and  to  punish  Tahmeroo  a  little  for  the  jealousy 
which  sent  her  off  like  a  wild  hawk  upon  the  night.  I  trust  you 
will  not  think  it  worth  while  to  mention  the  affair  to  my  august 
mother-in-law  before  we  meet  again  in  the  valley  of  the  Mo 
hawk  !" 

"  I  understand,"  answered  the  missionary  briefly,  and  inform 
you  that  the  power  to  enforce  the  conditions  of  your  marriage 
contract  rests  with  me,  so  Jet  the  fact  of  your  visiting  this  island 
remain  among  ourselves." 

'12 


178  MARY      DERWENT. 

"  You  are  generous,  sir,"  answered  Butler,  covering  the  bitter 
ness  of  his  defeat  under  an  appearance  of  grateful  feeling. 
"  Come,  Tahmeroo,  show  me  your  craft,  and  I  will  take  you 
back  to  the  ledge.  My  poor  canoe  is  half  way  to  Wilkesbarre 
by  this  time,  I  dare  say." 

He  wound  his  arm  around  the  young  Indian  exactly  as  he  had 
supported  Jane  Derwent  a  few  minutes  before,  passed  by  that 
astonished  girl  with  a  careless  nod  of  the  head,  and  in  this  fash 
ion  was  about  to  leave  the  cove  ;  but  Tahmeroo  disengaged 
herself  from  his  arm,  and  came  back  with  a  wild  grace,  that 
touched  the  missionary  to  the  heart.  She  knelt  down  before 
him,  and  bent  her  head  for  a  blessing,  as  she  had  bowed  at  his 
feet  once  before  that  night. 

He  did  not  touch  her  head  ;  some  unaccountable  feeling  kept 
him  from  that ;  but  he  lifted  both  hands  to  heaven  and  blessed 
her  fervently.  Tahmeroo  arose,  passed  Jane  quickly,  and,  taking 
Mary's  hand,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  gratitude  laid  it  against  her 
heart. 

"  When  the  war  storm  comes,  Tahmeroo  will  remember  the 
white  bird." 

With  a  throb  of  affection,  for  which  she  could  not  account 
even  to  herself,  Mary  wound  her  arms  around  that  bending  neck, 
and  drew  the  Indian  girl  close  to  her  bosom.  For  an  instant 
those  two  hearts  beat  against  each  other  with  full  heavy  throbs. 
When  Mary  unlocked  her  arms,  it  seemed  as  if  a  portion  of  her 
own  life  had  been  carried  away,  leaving  her  richer  than  ever. 

Before  she  had  time  to  wonder  at  this,  Tahmeroo  and  her 
husband  had  disappeared. 

Jane  Derwent  might  well  have  trembled,  had  she  known  the 
vindictive  feelings  that  man  took  away  with  him. 

Mary  Derwent  arose  early  in  the  morning.  She  had  not  slept 
over  night,  but  strove  with  many  a  gentle  wile  to  soothe  the  in 
dignant  grief  of  her  sister,  and  win  for  her  the  sleep  that  forsook 
her  own  eyelids.  All  night  long  she  heard  the  missionary  walk 
ing  up  and  down  the  outer-room,  with  a  sad,  heavy  step,  as  if 


THE      MERITED      LESSON.  179 

some  painful  subject  kept  him  from  rest.  At  daybreak  the  front 
door  closed,  and  his  tread  rose  softly  up  from  the  greensward,  as 
he  passed  down  to  the  water. 

Mary  stole  out  of  bed  and  followed  him.  Jane  had  dropped 
asleep  at  last,  and  lay  with  the  tears  still  trembling  on  her  closed 
lashes  and  hot  cheeks.  Both  anger  and  penitence  for  the  time 
were  hushed  in  slumber.  Thus,  the  deformed  girl  left  the  cabin 
unmolested,  and  overtook  the  missionary  just  as  he  was  getting 
into  his  canoe. 

"  May  I  go  with  you  ?"  she  said,  bending  her  sweet,  troubled 
face  upon  him  as  he  took  up  the  oars. 

"  Why  did  you  follow  me,  child  ?"  he  answered.  "It  is  very 
early." 

"  I  do  not  know — I  was  awake  all  night — something  told  me 
to  follow  you.  They  are  all  asleep  and  will  not  miss  me — please 
take  me  in.  I  want  to  feel  the  wind  from  the  river — our  room 
has  been  so  close  all  night  that  I  can't  breathe." 

The  missionary  grew  thoughtful  while  she  was  speaking  ;  but 
at  last  he  smiled,  and  bade  her  step  into  the  canoe.  She  placed 
herself  at  his  feet,  sighing  gently,  as  if  some  pain  had  left  her 
heart. 

"  Is  it  far  ?"  she  asked,  looking  up  stream  toward  Campbell's 
Ledge. 

The  missionary  had  told  her  nothing  of  his  object ;  but  he  an 
swered  as  if  there  had  been  some  previous  appointment  between 
them. 

"  Last  night  they  were  encamped  under  the  Ledge." 

"  And  you  will  tell  this  white  queen  what  happened — you  will 
keep  that  bad  man  away  from  Monockonok  ?" 

"  It  is  for  this  I  seek  the  camp  ;  but  why  did  you  follow  me  ? 
— how  did  you  guess  where  I  was  going  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  That  strange  lady  never  spoke  to  me — never 
saw  me  in  all  her  life  ;  but  I  want  to  look  at  her  again.  She 
seemed  standing  by  the  bed  all  last  night,  asking  me  not  to 
sleep.  Sometimes  I  could  almost  see  her  crimson  feathers  wave, 


180  MAET      DERWENT. 

and  hear  the  wampum  fringes  rattle  on  her  moccasins.  I  think 
that  no  shadow  was  ever  so  real  before." 

"  And  it  was  this  strange  fancy  that  sent  you  out  so  early  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  it  was  a  fancy.  I  could  see,  as  the  day  broke,  that 
grandmother's  crimson  cardinal,  which  hung  against  the  wall, 
had  flung  its  shadow  downward  ;  but  the  idea  of  that  strange 
lady  had  sunk  into  my  heart,  before  the  light  told  me  what  it 
was.  I  longed  to  hear  her  voice  again,  to  see  her  with  the  sun 
light  quivering  about  her  head.  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  like  a  queen 
standing  there  upon  the  rock.  I  caught  my  breath  every  time 
she  spoke." 

"  And  yet  she  did  not  speak  to  you  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  was  out  of  sight,  behind  the  brushwood.  She  did 
not  know  that  a  poor  creature  like  me  existed — how  should 
she  ?" 

The  missionary  bent  heavily  to  his  oars  ;  drops  of  perspira 
tion  rose  to  his  forehead  ;  he  beat  the  water  with  heavy,  des 
perate  pulls  ;  but  it  was  long  before  he  answered. 

They  landed  at  Falling  Spring,  and  made  their  way  into  the 
hills.  A  trail  was  broken  through  the  undergrowth,  where 
the  Indians  had  passed  up  to  the  ledge  the  night  before.  Here 
and  there  a  blackened  pine-torch  lay  in  the  path,  and  fragments 
of  rude  finery  clung  to  the  thorn  bushes. 

The  missionary  moved  on,  buried  in  thought.  Mary  followed 
after,  panting  for  breath,  but  unwilling  to  lag  behind.  At  last 
he  noticed  that  she  mounted  the  hill  with  pain,  and  began 
to  reproach  himself,  tenderly  helping  her  forward.  She  saw  that 
he  grew  pale  with  each  advancing  step,  and  that  his  hand  shook 
nervously  as  he  took  hers,  in  the  ascent.  Why,  she  could  not 
think.  Surely  he  did  not  fear  the  savages  then,  after  having 
stood  in  their  midst  the  night  before. 

At  last  they  came  out  upon  a  pile  of  rocks  that  overlooked 
the  encampment.  The  whole  basin,  so  full  of  savage  life  ten 
hours  before,  lay  empty  at  their  feet  ;  not  a  human  being  was 
in  sight ;  trampled  grass,  extinguished  torches,  and  torn  vines 


THE      MERITED      LESSON.  181 

betrayed  a  scene  of  silent  devastation.  In  the  midst  of  it  all 
stood  Catharine  Montour's  lodge,  drearily  empty.  The  bear  skin 
was  torn  down  from  the  entrance  ;  the  rich  furs  that  had  lined 
it  were  all  removed  ;  it  was  a  heap  of  bare  logs,  through  which 
the  morning  winds  went  whispering — nothing  more. 

The  missionary  and  Mary  Derwent  looked  wistfully  in  each 
other's  faces  ;  a  dead  feeling  of  disappointment  settled  upon 
them  both. 

"  They  are  gone,"  he  said,  looking  vaguely  around;  "gone 
without  a  sign  ;  we  are  too  late,  Mary." 

"  It  is  dreary,"  said  the  deformed,  seating  herself  on  the  thresh 
old  of  Catharine's  lodge  ;  "  I  had  so  hoped  to  find  the  white 
lady  here." 

All  at  once  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  looking  steadily 
westward. 

"  See  !  see  !" 

"  What,  my  child  ?" 

Far  off,  up  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  she  saw  glimpses 
of  moving  crimson  and  warm  russet  breaking  the  green  of  the 
forest.  The  missionary  searched  the  distance,  and  saw  those 
living  masses  also. 

"  It  is  the  whole  tribe  in  motion — another  dream  vanishing 
away,"  he  said,  following  the  train  with  a  look  of  indescribable 
sadness.  "  Let  us  descend,  Mary  ;  this  is  not  God's  time,  but  it 
will  come." 

Mary  sat  upon  a  fragment  of  rock,  gazing  up  the  river,  with  a 
feeling  of  keen  disappointment ;  she  had  hoped  to  see  that  stately 
white  woman  again,  and  to  have  said  one  more  kindly  word  to 
the  young  Indian  bride  ;  but  there  was  no  chance  of  that  left. 
Even  as  she  gazed,  those  living  waves  swept  over  a  curve  of  the 
hills,  and  were  lost  in  the  green  west.  The  girl  sighed  heavily, 
and  stood  up  to  go. 

They  went  silently  down  the  mountain  together,  and  then  as 
silently  floated  with  the  current  of  the  river  till  their  little  shal 
lop  once  more  shot  into  the  cove  at  Monockonok  Island. 


182  MART      DERWENT. 

Jane  was  still  asleep  when  her  sister  entered  their  little  room  ; 
but  an  angry  frown  gathered  on  her  face,  and  she  muttered  dis 
contentedly  as  Mary  strove  to  arouse  her.  When  they  came 
forth,  Mother  Derwent  had  the  breakfast  ready,  waiting  before 
the  kitchen  fire.  The  spider  was  turned  up  before  a  bed  of 
coals,  and  the  johnny  cake  within  rose  round  and  golden  to  the 
heat  ;  a  platter  of  venison  steaks  stood  ready  on  the  hearth,  and 
the  potatoes  she  was  slicing  into  the  hot  gravy  which  they  had 
left  in  the  long-handled  frying-pan,  hissed  and  browned  over  the 
fire,  while  the  old  lady  stood,  with  the  handle  in  one  hand  and 
a  dripping  knife  in  the  other,  waiting  for  the  family  to  assemble 
around  the  little  pine  table  set  out  so  daintily  in  the  centre  of 
the  kitchen. 

Jane  came  from  her  room  sullen  and  angry.  The  old  lady 
was  a  little  cross  because  no  one  had  volunteered  to  help  her  get 
breakfast,  and,  as  the  best  of  women  in  those  olden  times  would, 
scolded  generally  as  she  proceeded  with  her  work. 

"  It  was  very  strange,"  she  said,  "  what  had  come  over  the 
young  people  of  that  day — the  smartness  had  all  gone  out  of 
them.  When  she  was  a  girl,  things  were  different — children 
•were  brought  up  to  be  useful  then.  They  never  thought  of  hav 
ing  parties,  and  dressing  in  chintz  dresses — not  they.  An  apple- 
cut  or  a  log-rolling,  once  a  year,  was  amusement  enough.  True, 
some  families  did  get  up  an  extra  husking,  or  quilting  frolic,  but 
when  such  excessive  dissipation  crept  into  a  neighborhood,  the 
minister  took  it  up  in  his  pulpit,  and  the  sin  was  handled  without 
mittens. 

Jane  sat  down  by  the  window,  moody  and  restless.  At  an 
other  time  the  old  granddame  might  have  croned  on  with  her 
complaints,  and  the  girl  would  scarcely  have  heard  them,  she 
was  so  used  to  this  eternal  exaltation  of  the  past  over  the  present, 
which  always  has  been,  and  always  will  be,  a  pleasant  recreation 
for  old  ladies  ;  but  now  Jane  was  fractious,  and  disposed  to  take 
offence  at  everything  ;  so  she  broke  into  these  running  complaints 
with  a  violent  burst  of  weeping,  which  startled  the  old  dame  till 


THE      ME KITED      LESSON.  183 

she  almost  dropped  the  frying-pan.  The  dear  soul  was  quite  un 
conscious  that  she  had  been  scolding  all  the  morning,  and  Jane's 
injured  looks  startled  her. 

"  Are  you  sick,  Janey  dear  ?"  she  inquired  kindly. 

"  No,  Jane  was  not  sick — but  she  wished  she  was  dead — that 
phe  had  never  been  born — in  short,  she  didn't  know  what  people 
were  born  for  at  all,  especially  girls  that  could'nt  help  being 
good-looking,  and  that  nobody  would  let  alone.  If  she  had  only 
been  laid,  by  her  dear,  dear  father,  under  the  cedar  trees,  the 
whole  world  wouldn't  have  been  bent  on  persecuting  her,  espe 
cially  her  grandmother  !" 

This  touched  the  old  lady's  heart  to  the  centre.  She  forgot 
to  stir  the  potatoes,  and  let  them  brown  to  a  crisp  in  the  pan. 
Indeed,  she  went  so  far  as  to  rest  that  long  handle  on  the  back 
of  a  chair,  and  forsook  her  post  altogether. 

"  Why,  Janey,  what  is  all  this  about,  dear  ?  Grandma  wasn't 
scolding  you,  only  talking  to  herself  in  a  promiscuous  way,  about 
things  in  general.  Don't  cry  so — that's  a  darling.  Come,  now, 
grandma  will  get  you  something  nice  for  breakfast — some  pre 
served  plums." 

"  No,  Jane  had  no  desire  for  preserved  plums  ;  she  only  wanted 
to  die  ;  it  was  a  cruel  world,  and  she  didn't  care,  for  her  part, 
how  soon  she  was  out  of  it.  Everybody  was  set  against  her. 
Mary  did  nothing  but  find  fault,  and  as  for  Edward  Clark — well, 
of  course,  some  one  would  be  slandering  her  to  him  next.  The 
missionary  himself  might  do  it — ministers  always  must  be  med 
dling  with  other  people's  business.  She  shouldn't  be  surprised 
if  Clark  were  even  to  believe  that  she  did't  care  for  him,  but  was 
disappointed  that  Captain  Butler  had  demeaned  himself  into 
marrying  that  little  good-for-nothing  squaw,  who  had  been  chas 
ing  after  him  so  long.  In  fact,  such  was  her  own  opinion  of 
human  nature — she  should'nt  be  astonished  at  anything,  not  even 
if  the -missionary,  who  had  more  silver  on  his  head  than  he  would 
ever  get  into  his  pocket,  should  fall  in  love  with  Mary." 

At  this  grandma  was  horrified.    How  could  Jane  think  of  any- 


184:  MAKY     DEKWENT. 

thing  so  dreadful  ? — but  then,  poor  child,  she  was  out  of  temper, 
and  said  whatever  came  uppermost — of  course,  it  meant  nothing, 
and  Jane  must  not  think  she  was  scolding  again — nothing  of  the 
sort. 

But  Jane  did  think  grandma  was  scolding.  Perhaps  it  was 
right  that  she,  a  poor  orphan,  who  had  only  one  dear  grand 
mother  in  the  wide,  wide  world,  should  have  that  grandmother 
set  against  her.  This  was  her  destiny,  she  supposed,  and  sub 
mission  was  her  duty  ;  she  only  hoped  nobody  would  be  sorry  for 
it  after  she  was  dead  and  gone,  that  was  all. 

How  long  Jane  Derwent  might  have  kept  up  this  state  of 
martyrdom  it  is  difficult  to  say,  but  just  as  she  was  indulging  in 
another  outbreak  of  sorrowful  self-compassion,  Mary  came  up 
from  the  cove,  looking  pale  and  concerned.  She  had  been  to  call 
the  missionary  to  breakfast,  and  found  him  bailing  out  his  canoe, 
ready  to  start  from  the  Island.  He  had  spoken  few  words  in 
leaving,  but  the  hands  which  touched  her  forehead,  as  he  blessed 
her,  were  cold  as  ice.  She  felt  the  chill  of  that  benediction,  holy 
as  it  was,  at  her  heart  yet;  the  sorrow  upon  her  face  startled  Jane 
into  a  little  natural  feeling.  She  forgot  to  torment  that  kind 
old  woman,  and  condescended  to  approach  the  breakfast  table 
without  more  tears. 

"  Where  is  the  minister  ? — why  don't  he  come  to  breakfast  ?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Derwent,  looking  ruefully  at  the  crisp  little  pile  of 
potatoes  left  in  the  frying-pan.  "  I've  had  the  table  sot  out  a 
hull  hour,  and  now  everything  is  done  to  death.  I  wonder  what 
on  arth  has  come  over  you  all  !" 

"  The  minister  has  gone  away,"  answered  Mary,  and  the  tears 
swelled  into  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

"  Gone  away  1  marcy  on  us,  and  without  a  mouthful  of  break 
fast.  Why,  gals,  what  have  you  been  a  doing  to  him  ?  he  ain't 
mad  nor  nothing,  is  he  ?" 

Mary  smiled  through  her  tears.  The  very  idea  of  petty 
anger  connected  with  the  missionary  seemed  strange  to  her. 


THE      MERITED      LESSON.  185 

"  Oh,  grandma,  he  is  never  angry,"  she  said  ;  "  but  he  seems 
anxious  and  troubled  about  something." 

"  Worried  to  death  by  them  Inguns,  I  dare  say,"  muttered 
the  granddame,  with  a  shake  of  the  head  that  made  her  cap- 
borders  tremble  around  the  withered  face.  "  They'll  scalp  him 
one  of  these  days,  for  all  the  pains  he  takes." 

"  No,  no  ;  they  love  him  too  well — you  don't  really  think  this, 
grandma,"  cried  Mary,  turning  pale  with  sudden  terror. 

"  Well,  no  ;  I  suppose  he  stands  as  good  a  chance  as  the  rest 
of  us  ;  but  that  isn't  saying  over-much,  for  I  tell  yon  what,  gals, 
there  '11  be  squally  times  in  the  valley  afore  another  year  goes 
over  our  heads,  or  I  lose  my  guess.  All  these  ere  forts  and 
stockades  ain't  being  built  for  nothing." 

Jane  started  up  in  affright.  "  You  don't  think  they  mean  to 
attack  us  at  once  ? — that  they  are  camping  under  the  ledge  in 
order  to  pounce  upon*  us  unawares,  do  you,  grandma  ?  Oh,  I 
wish  I  was  away  !  I  wish  I'd  gone  while  there  was  a  chance  ! 
They'll  scalp  me  the  very  first  one — I  can  almost  feel  that  hor 
rid  Indian  girl's  knife  in  my  hair  !" 

"  Don't  fear  that,"  said  Mary  ;  "  they  have  left  Campbell's 
Ledge.  I  was  up  there  at  daylight,  and  found  the  camp 
empty." 

"  You  up  there  at  daylight,  Mary  ?  What  for  ?"  cried  Jane, 
flushing  with  angry  surprise.  "  Who  did  you  go  to  see  ?" 

"  I  went  with  the  missionary." 

"  And  who  was  he  after,  I  should  like  to  know  ?" 

<f I  believe,  Jane,  he  wished  to  speak  with  the  young  girl  whom 
ae  married  to  Walter  Butler  last  night,  and  perhaps  to  her 
mother,  the  strange  white  lady,  also." 

"  And  what  about  ? — what  business  has  that  man  with  Walter 
Butler's  affairs  ?  I  should  think  he'd  meddled  enough  already," 
cried  the  angry  beauty. 

"  It  was  not  Butler,  but  his  wife  whom  the  minister  went  in 
search  of." 


186  MARY      DERWENT. 

"  His  wife  !"  cried  Jane,  with  a  magnificent  curve  of  the  lip, 
and  a  lift  of  the  head  that  Juno  might  have  envied.  "  What 
does  an  Indian  wife  amount  to  in  the  law  ?" 

"  A  great  deal,  if  she  has  been  married  by  the  law.'7 

"  But  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  that  ;  Butler  isn't  such  a 
fool  ;  he  only  said  it  to  torment  me,  to — to  " 

Jane  lost  herself  here,  for  the  keen  look  which  Grandmother 
Derwent  turned  upon  her,  brought  caution  with  it. 

"  Well,  gals,  what  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?  I  don't 
want  the  name  of  that  tory  captain  mentioned  under  my  cabin 
roof.  His  place  is  with  the  Wintermoots,  the  Van  Garders,  and 
Van  Alstyns — birds  of  a  feather  flock  together.  While  I  live, 
the  man  that  makes  himself  friends  with  the  off-scouring  from 
York  State  had  better  keep  clear  of  Monockonok  island." 

Jane  bit  her  lips  with  vexation,  but  she  said  nothing  ;  for 
•when  the  old  woman  waxed  patriotic  there  was  no  opposing  her, 
and  even  the  beautiful  favorite  feared  to  urge  the  conversation 
farther. 

Mother  Derwent  stepped  to  the  door,  and  shading  her  eyes 
with  one  hand,  looked  up  and  down  the  river.  Her  kind  old  heart 
was  distressed  at  the  idea  of  the  missionary  going  away  without 
his  breakfast.  She  saw  his  canoe  at  last  gliding  along  the  op 
posite  shore,  and  turned  briskly  around. 

"  There  he  is,  neither  out  of  sight  nor  hearing  yet.  Mary,  run 
up  stairs  and  shake  a  white  cloth  out  of  the  garret  window. 
You,  Jane,  bring  me  the  tin  dinner-horn.  I'll  give  him  a  blast 
that  shall  bring  him  back,  depend  on't. 

Mary  ran  to  make  the  signal,  and  Jane  took  down  a  long  tin 
dinner-horn  from  behind  the  door,  which  Mother  Derwent  blew 
vigorously,  rising  on  tiptoe,  and  sending  blast  after  blast  upon 
the  water  as  if  she  had  been  summoning  an  army.  The  mission 
ary  heard  the  sound,  and  saw  Mary  with  her  white  signal  at  the 
window.  He  waved  his  hand  two  or  three  times,  sat  down 
again,  and  directly  disappeared  in  a  bend  of  the  shore. 

Mary  watched  him  with  a  heavy  heart.     It  seemed  as  his 


AUNT      POLLY      CAKTEK. 


1ST 


canoe  was  lost  to  her  sight  that  half  her  life  had  departed  for 
ever,  and  he,  looking  mournfully  back,  saw  the  snowy  signal 
floating  from  the  window,  with  a  gush  of  tender  sorrow.  It  was 
like  the  wing  of  an  angel  unfurling  itself  with  vain  efforts  to  fol 
low  him. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

AUNT      POLLY      CARTER. 

BUT  old  Mother  Derwent  was  not  altogether  disappointed.  As 
if  answering  the  blast  of  her  horn  a  female  appeared  on  the  op 
posite  shore,  signalizing  for  a  boat  with  great  vigor.  Mary 
could  only  see  that  the  woman  wore  a  short  scarlet  cloak,  and 
that  the  brilliant  cotton  handkerchief  flaunting  so  impatiently 
was  large  enough  for  a  sail  to  any  craft  on  the  river. 

Jane  had  withdrawn  sulkily  into  the  bedroom.  She  was  by  no 
means  pleased  with  the  efforts  her  grandmother  was  making  to 
bring  the  missionary  back  :  in  her  heart  she  was  beginning  to 
detest  the  good  man. 

When  Mary  came  down  and  saw  there  was  no  one  else  to 
answer  the  stranger's  signal,  she  went  at  once  to  unmoor  her  own 
pretty  canoe,  and  was  soon  across  the  river. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  my  pet  ?"  cried  a  cordial  voice,  as  she  neared 
the  shore.  "  I  thought  mebby  Jane  would  be  on  hand  to  row 
me  across.  Is  grandmarm  to  hum,  and  how's  your  sister  ?  purty 
well,  I  hope  ?" 

Mary's  face  brightened.  The  visitor  was  Aunt  Polly  from  the 
Elm-tree  tavern  on  the  Kingston  shore,  a  welcome  guest  at  any 
house  from  Wilksbarre  to  the  Lackawanna  gap,  but  a  woman 
who  seldom  left  the  shelter  of  her  own  roof,  and  her  presence 
BO  far  from  her  home  might  well  be  a  matter  of  wonder. 


188  MA  BY      DERWENT. 

"  Why,  Aunt  Polly,  is  it  you  ?  How  glad  grandma  will  be," 
said  Mary,  looking  up  from  her  seat  in  the  canoe  with  pleasure 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  it's  me  sure  enough,  safe  and  sound.  I'll  just  take  the 
bits  out  of  General  Washington's  mouth,  and  let  him  crop  a  bite 
of  grass  while  I  go  over  and  say  how-do-you-do  to  grandma. 
See  how  the  old  feller  eyes  that  thick  grass  with  the  vilets  in  it  1 
There,  old  chap,  go  at  it." 

As  she  spoke,  the  old  maid  went  up  to  a  huge  farm  horse, 
cumbered  with  a  saddle  much  too  narrow  for  his  back,  which  bore 
unmistakable  evidence  of  its  Connecticut  origin  ;  for  the  horns 
curved  in  like  those  of  a  vicious  cow,  and  the  stirrups  were  so 
short  that  a  tall  rider,  like  Aunt  Polly,  was  compelled  to  double 
her  limbs  up  till  they  formed  a  letter  A  under  her  calico  skirt 
whenever  General  Washington  had  the  honor  of  carrying  her  in 
state  upon  the  wonderful  mechanism  of  that  side-saddle,  which 
was  the  pride  and  glory  of  her  house. 

"  There,  now,"  she  said,  unbuckling  the  throat-latch,  and  slip 
ping  the  bridle,  bits  and  all,  around  General  Washington's  stumpy 
neck,  which  she  patted  with  great  affection.  "  Go  in  for  a  feed, 
and  no  mistake,  Giueral,  only  keep  to  the  bank,  and  mind  you 
don't  roll  on  that  saddle — it  couldn't  be  matched  on  this  side  the 
Green  Mountains,  I  tell  you,  now." 

General  Washington  seemed  to  understand  all  this  perfectly, 
for  he  gave  his  great  lumbering  head  a  toss  which  signified  plainer 
than  words,  that  he  understood  the  value  of  that  saddle  quite  as 
well  as  his  mistress,  and  knew  how  to  keep  his  peace,  if  it  came  to 
that,  without  being  lectured  about  it.  He  whinnied  out  his 
satisfaction,  in  answer  to  Aunt  Polly's  caresses,  and  trotted  off 
with  great  dignity  toward  a  little  rivulet,  on  the  bank,  where  the 
grass  was  green  as  emeralds,  and  the  violets  blue  as  a  baby's 
eyes. 

"There,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  looking  after  him  as  he  rolled 
heavily  along,  with  the  flesh  quivering  like  a  jelly  under  his  sleek 
hide,  "  isn't  he  a  picterful  sight  ?  Why,  Mary  dear,  that  hoss 


AUNT      POLLY      CARTEK.  189 

knows  more  than  two-thirds  of  the  men  in  Wyoming.  Now,  that 
saddle  is  jest  as  safe  on  his  back  as  if  it  was  hung  up  by  the  stir 
rup  in  my  kitchen — he's  a  wonderful  critter,  is  General  Wash 
ington." 

With  her  head  half  turned  back,  in  proud  admiration  of  her 
steed,  Aunt  Polly  let  herself  down  the  bank,  talking  all  the  time, 
and  at  last  sat  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  gathering  her 
scarlet  cloak  around  her,  and  covering  her  ankles  decorously  with 
the  skirt  of  her  striped  dress.  Then,  with  a  gentle  dip  of  the 
oars,  Mary  headed  her  little  craft  for  the  island. 

Mother  Derwent  was  both  pleased  at  and  annoyed  by  the  sight 
of  her  visitor — pleased,  because  Aunt  Polly  Carter  was  born  in 
the  same  old  Connecticut  town  with  herself ;  and  annoyed,  that 
she,  the  very  best  cook  and  housekeeper  in  Wyoming,  should 
find  a  spoiled  breakfast  on  the  hearth — potatoes  browned  into 
chips,  venison  steaks  with  all  the  gravy  dried  up,  and  the  johnny- 
cake  overdone.  It  was  a  terrible  humiliation,  and  Mother  Der 
went  felt  as  if  she  had  been  detected  in  some  shameful  act  of 
negligence  by  her  old  friend  of  the  Elm  Tree  tavern. 

"  Just  in  time,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly,  taking  off  her  cloak 
and  untying  her  bonnet ;  "  I  was  afraid  breakfast  'ed  be  over 
afore  I  got  here.  Gracious  goodness,  Miss  Derwent,  don't  you 
see  that  johnny  cake's  burnt  to  a  crisp  ? — here,  give  it  to  me — half 
cold  too,  dear,  dear — never  mind,  good  soul,  it  might  a  been 
worse — there,  take  it  this  way,  and  beat  it  between  both  hands 
a  trifle — oh,  that  tea  smells  something  like,  oh,  ha — you  haven't 
forgot  to  cook  a  meal  of  victuals  yet ;  you  and  I  can  give  these 
Pennsylvanians  a  lesson  any  day,  Miss  Derwent." 

Grandma  explained  how  the  breakfast  had  been  kept  waiting 
till  it  was  quite  spoiled  ;  but  Aunt  Polly  would  listen  to  nothing 
of  the  kind — everything  was  excellent,  the  tea  drawn  beautifully, 
and  the  butter  perfection.  As  for  the  preserved  plums  and  crab 
apples,  she  had  tasted  nothing  equal  to  them  in  years  ;  they 
had  the  real  Connecticut  flavor — quite  put  her  in  mind  of  old 
times. 


190  MART      DEKWENT. 

They  had  all  been  seated  at  the  table  some  minutes  before 
Jane  made  her  appearance.  She  was  still  moody,  and  received 
Aunt  Polly  with  distrustful  reserve,  which  the  good  lady  did  not 
seem  to  regard  in  the  least,  but  went  on  with  her  breakfast, 
tranquil  as  a  summer's  day. 

After  they  arose  from  the  table,  there  was  a  world  of  ques 
tions  to  ask,  and  experiments  to  try.  Aunt  Polly  took  pride  in 
exhibiting  all  her  accomplishments  before  the  young  girls.  She 
sat  down  at  the  flax  wheel,  arranged  the  threads  in  the  flyers, 
and  directly  the  whole  cabin  was  filled  with  their  hum. 

"  Look  here,  girls,  and  see  how  an  old  housekeeper  can  spin. 
Why,  long  before  I  was  of  your  age  I  had  yards  and  yards  of 
homespun  linen  out  in  father's  spring  meadow,  whitening  for  my 
setting  out.  I've  got  a  great  chest  full  of  that  ere  identical 
linen  in  my  house  this  minute,  that's  never  been  used,  and  never 
will  be  till  I'm  settled  for  life." 

Now,  as  Aunt  Polly  was  a  middle-aged  woman  when  she  left 
Connecticut,  and  had  lived  at  the  Elm  Tree  tavern  twenty-five 
years,  this  idea  of  settling  for  life — which,  of  course,  comprised 
a  husband,  who  might  also  be  landlord  to  that  establishment — 
struck  the  young  girls  at  once  as  so  improbable,  that  they  both 
smiled. 

Aunt  Polly  knew  nothing  of  this,  but  kept  spinning  on — tread, 
tread,  tread — now  dipping  her  fingers  in  the  dried  shell  of  a 
mock  orange,  that  hung  full  of  water  to  the  distaff,  and  daintily 
moistening  the  flax  as  it  ran  through  them — now  stopping  to 
change  the  thread  on  her  flyer,  and  off  again — hum — hum— with 
a  smile  of  self-satisfaction  that  was  pleasant  to  behold. 

After  this  little  display,  the  good  landlady  tried  her  hand  at 
the  loom,  where  a  linen  web  was  in  progress  of  completion  ;  but 
finding  the  quill  box  empty,  she  called  out  with  her  cheerful 
voice  for  Jane  to  come  and  wind  some  quills,  for  she  was  dying 
to  try  her  hand  at  the  shuttle,  if  it  was  only  to  show  them  how 
things  were  done  when  she  was  a  girl. 

Jane  could  not  altogether  resist  this  good  humor  j  still,  she 


AUNT      POLLY      CARTER.  191 

came  forward,  half  pouting,  dragged  the  lumbering  old  swifts  out 
from  under  the  loom,  banded  her  quill  wheel,  and  soon  supplied 
the  empty  shuttle,  which  Aunt  Polly  was  so  impatient  to  use. 

Now  there  was  a  clatter  indeed  ;  the  treadles  rose  and  fell 
with  grating  moans  beneath  those  resolute  feet  ;  the  rude  gear 
ing  shrieked  on  its  pullies  ;  the  shuttle  flew  in  and  out,  now  dart 
ing  into  the  weaver's  right  hand — now  into  the  left,  while  the 
lathe  banged  away,  and  the  old  loom  trembled  in  all  its 
timbers. 

"  That's  right — look  on,  girls,"  cried  the  old  maid  with  enthu 
siasm.  "  It'll  be  a  good  while,  I  reckon,  before  either  of  you 
can  come  up  to  this  ;  but  '  live  and  learn '  is  a  good  saying. 
Your  grandmother  and  I've  seen  the  time  when  we  broke  more 
threads  with  awkward  throws  than  we  knew  how  to  mend  with 
two  thumbs  and  eight  fingers.  Just  see  this  shuttle  fly — isn't  it 
beautiful  ?  Oh,  girls,  there's  nothing  like  work — it  keeps  the 
body  healthy,  and  the  soul  out  of  mischief.  Wind  away,  Janey, 
it'll  do  you  lots  of  good  ;  we'll  keep  at  it  till  Miss  Derwent  has 
washed  up  the  morning  dishes  ;  an  extra  yard  '11  help  her  along 
wonderfully — that's  the  music — keep  the  old  wheel  agoing — more 
quills — more  quills  !" 

Jane  took  a  double  handful  of  quills  from  her  lap  and  brought 
them  to  the  loom.  While  Aunt  Polly  was  putting  one  in  her 
shuttle,  she  looked  keenly  in  the  young  girl's  face,  shook  her 
head,  and  went  to  work  again  more  vigorously  than  before. 
Mary  saw  this,  and  was  satisfied  that  the  old  maid  had  some 
deeper  object  in  her  visit  than  these  experiments  with  her  grand 
mother's  wheel  and  loom. 

But  Aunt  Polly  went  on  with  her  work,  becoming  more  and 
more  excited  with  every  fling  of  the  shuttle.  She  let  out  her 
web  and  rolled  her  cloth-beam  eight  or  nine  times  before  her  en 
thusiasm  began  to  flag. 

"  There,"  she  said  at  last,  laying  the  empty  shuttle  daintily 
upon  the  cloth  she  had  woven,  and  forcing  herself  out  from  the 
slanting  seat,  "  if  anybody  wants  an  evener  yard  of  cloth  than 


192  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

that,  let  them  weave  it,  I  say.  Now,  Janey,  come  and  show  me 
your  garden,  and  let's  see  if  it's  as  forward  as  mine.  I've  had 
lettuce  and  peppergrass  up  this  week." 

Aunt  Polly  strode  toward  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  Jane 
followed  her. 

"  Now,"  said  the  old  maid,  facing  round  as  they  reached  the 
garden,  "you  needn't  suppose  that  I  took  Gineral  Washington 
from  the  plough,  and  come  up  to  Monockonok  just  to  see  you. 
all.  I  should  have  waited  till  after  planting-time  for  that  ;  but 
I  heard  something  last  night  that  worried  me  more  than  a  little,, 
and  I  want  to  know  what  it  means,  for  we  marriageable  females 
ought  to  stand  by  each  other.  How  comes  it,  Jane  Derwent, 
that  the  young  men  in  my  bar-room  talk  about  you  with  their 
loose  tongues,  and  dare  to  drink  your  health  in  glasses  of  corn, 
whisky  which  they  sometimes  forget  to  pay  for  ?" 

"  Who  has  done  this  ?"  questioned  Jane,  firing  up,  "  and  if 
they  have,  how  can  I  help  it  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was,  Jane  Derwent.  Last  night,  nigh  on 
to  morning,  Walter  Butler  and  young  WiAtermoot,  with  three  or 
four  other  rank  tories  from  the  fort,  came  to  my  house,  banging 
away  at  the  door  for  us  to  get  up  and  give  them  something  to 
drink.  Now,  I  hate  these  young  fellers  worse  than  pison, 
but  one  can't  keep  tavern  and  private  house  at  the  same 
time  when  a  sign  swings  agin  your  door  ;  any  loafer  has  a  right 
to  call  you  out  of  bed  when  he  pleases.  Well,  they  knocked  and 
hammered  till  I  woke  up  the  barkeeper,  and  sent  him  down  with, 
orders  to  make  their  sling  weak,  and  get  rid  of  them  the  minute 
he  could  ;  but,  mercy  on  us,  gal,  they  had  come  down  the  river 
like  a  flock  of  wolves,  and  was  just  as  easy  to  pacify.  The 
amount  of  whisky  they  drank  among  them  in  less  than  an  hour 
no  one  would  believe  that  hadn't  seen  it.  There  was  nothing  but 
a  board  partition  between  me  and  the  bar-room  ;  so  I  heard  every 
word  they  said,  and  considering  that  I  was  a  respectable  female 
that  might  be  called  upon  to  accept  an  offer  of  marriage  any 
day,  their  conversation  was  not  exactly  what  it  should  have  been.'* 


AUNT       POLLY      C  A  K  T  E  R  .  193 

"  And  they  mentioned  me — you  said  that  ?" 

"  Mentioned  you  ?  I  should  think  they  did — Butler,  Winter- 
moots,  and  all  the  rest  on  'em.  I  declare  it  made  my  blood  bile 
to  hear  the  language  they  used." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  was,  Aunt  Polly — me,  and  no  one 
else,  for  I  would  not  have  grandma  and  Mary  know  it  for  the 
world  r 

"  Yes — that  is  what  I  came  for.  Young  Wintermoot  began 
first — teasing  Butler  because  he'd  tried  to  run  away  with  you, 
and  had  to  give  it  up  after  you'd  both  started,  when  a  little 
hunchback  and  a  sneak  of  a  minister  said  he  mustn't.  These 
were  his  exact  words.  Then  another  set  in  and  wanted  to  drink 
success  to  the  next  time  in  bumpers  of  hot  toddy.  Directly  there 
was  a  crash  of  glasses  and  a  shout,  and  in  all  the  noise  I  heard 
your  name  over  and  over.  Some  were  laughing  ;  some  said  you 
were  a  beauty  and  no  mistake,  while  Butler  talked  loudest,  and 
said  he  was  sure  to  get  you  away  from  the  hunchback  yet,  spite 
jf  all  your  pride  and  ridiculous  nonsense." 

"  He  said  that,  did  he  ?"  cried  Jane,  biting  her  lips  with  silent 
rage. 

"  Yes,  he  said  that,  and  more,  yet.  When  one  of  the  fellows 
asked  what  the  pretty  squaw  would  do,  he  laughed,  and  an 
swered,  as  welt  as  he  could  for  hiccuping,  that  after  he'd  got  some 
money  that  he  expected  from  Sir  John  Johnson,  she  might  go  to 
Amsterdam,  or  where  she  could  find  more  fire  and  less  water,  for 
all  he  cared.  Then  he  went  on  telling  how  he  had  left  her  in 
the  woods  above  Falling  Spring,  only  a  few  hours  before,  crying 
like  a  baby  because  he  would  not  stay  and  tramp  back  to  Sene 
ca  Lake  with  her  tribe. 

"  The  young  tories  received  all  this  with  bursts  of  laughter,  jok 
ing  about  his  squaw  wife,  and  telling  him  what  a  fool  he  was  to 
let  you  go  when  once  a'most  off.  They  said  it  was  clear  enough 
you  didn't  want  to  go  with  him,  that  he'd  got  the  mitten  straight 
out,  because  you  liked  Edward  Clark  better  than  him,  and  so  he 
had  married  the  squaw  out  of  spite. 

13 


194  MARY      DERWENT. 

"  That  set  him  to  swearing  like  a  trooper  ;  he  said  there  wasn't 
a  word  of  truth  in  it,  that  you  were  crazy  in  love  with  him,  and 
would  follow  him  like  a  dog  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  wife  or  no 
wife,  if  you  could  only  escape  from  the  island,  and  no  one  the 
wiser — more,  he  said  that  he  left  you  crying  your  eyes  out  that 
very  night  because  he  went  off  with  the  Indian  girl  instead  of 
you." 

"  It  .was  false — there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it,  Aunt 
Polly.  I  hope  I  may  drop  down  dead  in  ray  tracks  if  there  was," 
cried  Jane,  trembling  with  rage  and  shame.  "  I  was  glad  to  see 
him  go  ;  Mary  can  tell  you  as  much." 

"  Then  you  have  seen  him  ?"  questioned  Aunt  Polly — "  then  he 
was  on  the  island  last  night,  as  he  said  ?" 

"  I  can't  help  his  coming  to  the  island,  Aunt  Polly  ;  every  one 
comes  here  who  has  a  boat,  if  he  pleases  ;  but  I  can  say  nobody 
wanted  Walter  Butler.  He's  been  a  visiting  the  Wintermoots  off 
and  on  for  three  or  four  months.  I  invited  him  and  the  Winter- 
moots  to  my  birthday-party,  and  was  a  fool  for  my  pains  ;  but 
as  for  liking  him,  the  tory,  the  young  outcast,  I — I  " 

Here  Jane  burst  into  a  torrent  of  angry  tears.  Aunt  Polly 
began  to  dry  up  this  sorrow  tenderly  with  her  great  cotton 
handkerchief,  which  seemed  large  enough  to  block  up  a  mill  sluice. 

"  Don't  cry,  Janey,  don't  cry,  that's  a  dear.  There,  there,  I 
shan't  tell  anybody  but  yourself  about  the  scamp's  boasting,  not 
even  Edward,  though  his  father  is  my  cousin." 

"  No,  don't,  Aunt  Polly,  don't  tell  him  of  all  people  in  the 
world." 

I1     "  Why — why,  Janey,  dear  ?    How  red  you  are  !     Tell  me, 
you  and  Edward  ain't  keeping  company  nor  nothing,  are  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  we  are,  Aunt  Polly,  and  have  been  this  ever  so  long. 
He  would  kill  that  hateful  villain  if  he  knew  half  that  he  said 
at  your  house  last  night." 

"  But  he  shan't  know  it,  child  ;  you,  and  I,  and  Mary  will  set 
tle  that  affair  amongst  ourselves,  to  say  nothing  of  grandma, 
who  would  be  worth  us  a}}  if  it  came  to  a  running  scold." 


AUNT      POLLY      CAETER.  195 

"  Don't — don't  say  a  word  to  Mary  or  grandma,"  cried  Jane, 
in  breathless  fear  ;  "  but  you  have  not  told  me  all  yet." 

"  No,  Jane  ;  what  is  to  come  makes  the  old  Connecticut  blood 
bile  in  my  veins.  I  swan  to  man,  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep 
from  jumping  out  of  bed,  and  going  in  amongst  them,  when  they 
sot  down,  and  made  up  a  plot  to  carry  you  off — them  young 
Wintermoots  was  to  do  it,  and  meet  Butler  in  the  Blue  Moun 
tains  after  he'd  got  a  heap  of  money  that  he  expected  from  Sir 
John  Johnson.  I  suppose  that's  the  son  of  Sir  William  Johnson, 
the  old  reprobate  who  had  so  many  Injun  wives  in  the  Mohawk 
Valley,  as  if  one  wife  wasn't  enough  for  any  man  in  a  new  coun 
try  where  women  folks  are  scarce.  Well,  as  I  was  a  saying, 
Butler  told  'em  to  go  over  to  the  island  some  night,  and  whistle 
like  that — here  he  sent  a  long  whistle  through  the  partition  that 
made  me  e'en  amost  start  up  in  bed,  and  the  young  Wintermoots 
practised  on  it  like  schoolboys  learning  their  a-b-abs  till  they 
filled  the  hull  house  like  a  nest  of  blackbirds  and  brown 
thrashers. 

"  Butler  told  'em  that  you'd  spring  out  of  bed  like  a  hawk 
from  its  nest  the  moment  you  heard  that,  and  if  they  only  flat 
tered  you  a  little,  and  told  you  for  earnest  that  he  didn't  care  a 
king's  farthing  for  the  Indian  girl,  and  wasn't  married  to  her 
only  Indian  fashion,  you'd  be  off  with  them,  and  glad  enough  to  go." 

"  He  did,  ha  ?  he  thinks  I'll  follow  him.  Never  mind,  Aunt 
Polly.  Let  him  come — let  them  whistle.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  was 
a  man." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  thoughtfully,  "  men  have  their  privi 
leges.  It's  something  to  be  able  to  knock  a  chap  down  when  he 
deserves  it,  and  then,  agin,  when  a  man's  heart  is  full  he  can 
speak  out,  and  not  let  his  feelings  curdle  like  sour  milk  in  a  pan. 
Yes,  Janey,  I  think  it  would  be  pleasant  if  some  of  us  could  be 
men  once  in  a  while  ;  but  human  nature  is  human  nature,  and  it 
ain't  to  be  expected." 

"  And  this  was  all  these  wicked  men  said  ?"  questioned  Jane, 
who  had  lost  half  this  speech  in  her  own  bitter  thoughts. 


196  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  Yes,  for  when  their  plot  was  laid,  they  left  the  house.  I 
peeped  through  the  window,  holding  the  vallance  close,  that 
they  could  not  see  my  night-cap,  you  know,  and  watched  them 
shake  hands  before  Butler  mounted  his  horse.  He  rode  off  down 
stream,  and  the  other  fellers  turned  up  the  road  towards  Winter- 
moot's  Fort." 

"  And  this  was  all  ?" 

"  All  that  belongs  to  you  ;  but  now  I've  a  word  to  say  to 
Mary  ;  by  that  time  Gineral  Washington  will  be  tired  of  crop 
ping  vilets,  I  reckon,  and  we'll  be  jogging  down  stream  again." 

"  Mary  !  what  can  you  want  with  Mary  ? — not  to  tell  her " 

"  By  no  manner  of  means,  Janey.  If  you  want  anybody  else 
to  help  you,  arter  what  I've  told  about  these  chaps,  the  truth  is, 
you  aint  woth  helping  any  how.  A  gal  that  can't  take  care  of 
herself  when  once  warned,  wouldn't  be  kept  back  from  ruin  if  a 
hull  meeting-houseful  of  jest  sich  angels  as  our  precious  Mary 
was  standing  in  the  way.  No,  I  don't  mean  to  torment  that 
heavenly  critter  with  uny  sich  wickedness  ;  but  yet  I've  got  a 
few  words  to  say  to  her,  and  you'll  oblige  me  by  going  to  the 
cabin  and  sending  her  out  here  at  onst." 

Jane  was  glad  to  obey.  This  interview  with  the  old  maid  had 
not  been  so  pleasant  that  she  wished  to  prolong  it ;  so  she  went 
and  summoned  Mary. 

That  gentle  girl  went  into  the  garden  a  little  anxious,  for  the 
excitement  of  th^last  night  had  found  its  reaction,  and  she  was 
ready  to  tremble  at  the  fall  of  a  leaf. 

The  change  that  had  come  over  Aunt  Polly  was  a  beautiful 
proof  of  the  influence  of  a  character  like  that  of  Mary  Derwent. 
With  Jane,  the  old  maid  had  been  peremptory  and  dictatorial, 
feeling  very  little  respect  for  the  wayward  girl — she  expressed 
none  ;  but  for  Mary,  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  world  of  tender 
reverence.  She  touched  her  daintily,  as  she  would  have  plucked 
a  snowdrop,  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  low,  earnest  voice,  such  as 
she  would  have  used  in  prayer,  had  she  been  much  inclined  to 
devotion. 


AUNT      POLLY      CARTER.  197 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  laying  one  hard  hand  lightly  on  the  maid 
en's  shoulder,  "  a  strange  thing  happened  to  me  this  morning. 
As  Ginerai  Washington  and  I  was  on  our  way  up  stream,  a 
woman  came  out  from  the  beach-woods  on  the  flats,  and  stopped 
right  in  the  road,  afore  that  knowing  animal  and  me,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  say  something  ;  but  she  didn't  speak,  and  the  Ginerai 
sort  a  shied  at  fust,  for  the  red  dress,  all  glittering  with  wampum, 
was  enough  to  scare  any  hoss." 

"  Had  she  a  scarlet  dress  on,  a  crown  of  feathers  around  her 
head,  and  a  glittering  snake  twisted  in  her  hair  ?"  inquired  Mary, 
quickly. 

"  That's  her  to  a  T.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sharp,  red  eyes 
of  that  sarpent  ;  a  live  rattlesnake  couldn't  have  eyed  the 
Ginerai  and  I  more  fiercely.  I  waited  a  minute,  to  give  the  wo 
man  a  chance,  if  she  wanted  to  speak,  but  she  was  sarching  my 
face  with  her  eyes,  as  if  she  wanted  to  look  me  through  afore 
she  opened  her  lips.  I  was  a'most  tempted  to  up  whip  and  ride 
straight  over  her  ;  but  the  Ginerai  seemed  to  have  his  own  idee 
— not  a  huff  would  he  lift.  I  shook  the  bridle  like  all-possessed, 
and  cherruped  him  along  as  if  he'd  been  a  nussing  baby  ;  but 
there  he  stood  stock-still  in  the  road,  a-eyeing  the  strange 
woman  jest  as  independent  as  she  was  eyeing  him  and  me." 

"And  did  she  say  nothing?" 

"  By-an-by  she  spoke,  and  though  it  was  afor'  sunrise,  it  seemed 
as  if  a  bust  of  light  broke  over  her  face,  it  lit  up  so." 

"  '  Can  you  tell  me,'  she  said,  '  where  I  can  find  a  small  island 
that  lies  in  the  river  about  here  ?  I  have  passed  one  or  two,  but 
there  are  no  houses  on  'em,  and  the  one  I  want  has  a  cabin  some 
where  near  the  shore.' 

"  '  Mcbby  you  want  Monockonok,'  says  I,  '  where  old  Miss 
Derwent  lives  ?' 

"  '  Yes/  says  she,  '  that  is  the  island  and  Derwent  is  the  name. 
She  has  two  daughters,  I  believe.' 

"  '  Two  granddaughters,'  says  I. 


198  MARY      DERWENT. 

"  '  Granddaughters,  are  they  ?  And  do  you  know  these  girls  ?' 
says  she. 

" '  Well,  yes,  I  reckon  so/  says  I,  '  and  mighty  smart  gals 
they  are.  Jane's  a  beauty,  without  paint  or  whitewash,  I  can, 

tell  you  ;  and  as  for  Mary '  But  no  matter  what  I  said 

about  you,  my  dear  ;  it  wasn't  all  you  desarved,  but " 

"  No  matter — oh  there  was  no  need  of  saying  anything  about 
me,"  murmured  the  deformed,  shrinking  within  herself,  as  she 
always  did,  when  her  person  was  alluded  to. 

Aunt  Polly  paused  abruptly,  and  began  to  whip  a  sweetbriar 
bush  near  her  with  great  vigor.  She  had  but  a  vague  idea  of 
all  the  keen  sensitiveness  her  words  ha.d  disturbed,  but  that  was 
sufficient  ;  her  rough,  kind  heart  was  troubled  at  the  very 
idea  of  giving  pain  to  that  gentle  girl. 

"  Well,  I  only  said  if  ever  there  was  an  angel  on  arth,  you 
was  one  ;  but  I'm  sorry  as  can  be,  now  ;  I  wouldn't  a  said  so  for 
the  world,  if  I'd  thought  you  didn't  like  it,"  pleaded  the  old  maid 
with  deprecating  meekness.  "You  know,  Mary  Derwent,  I  al- 
tvays  thought  you  was  the  salt  of  the  arth — that's  the  worst  I 
will  say  of  you  any  how,  like  it  or  not." 

"  But  the  woman,  Aunt  Polly — the  strange  lady  with  that 
living  serpent  around  her  head — what  did  she  want  of  Jane  and 
me  ?"  inquired  Mary,  keenly  interested  in  the  subject.  "  What 
could  she  mean  by  inquiring  about  grandmother  ?" 

"  Not  knowing,  can't  tell,  Miss  Mary.  She  fell  to  thinking, 
with  her  hand  up  to  her  forehead — a  purty  hand  it  was  too — 
afore  I'd  done  talking  ;  at  last  says  she — 

"  '  That  is  the  one  I  wish  to  speak  with/ 

"  '  Which/  says  I,  '  Miss  Jane  ?' 

"  '  No/  says  she, '  the  golden-haired  one  that  you've  been  tell 
ing  me  about/ 

"  '  Well/  says  I,  '  what  of  her,  inarm  ?  I'm  just  a-going  over 
to  Monockonok,  and  can  show  you  the  way,  if  you  want  to 
see  her.' 


A.UNT      POLLY      CARTER.  199 

"  '  No,  not  just  now,'  says  she,  '  I've  something  else  to  attend 
to  first  ;  but  if  you  see  this  girl,  tell  her  to  meet  me,  near  sun 
set,  at  the  spring  where  she  went  so  late  last  night — she  will 
understand  you.' 

"  '  Well,'  says  I,  '  if  I  may  be  so  bold,  what  do  you  want  with 
Mary  Derwent  ?' 

" '  I  wish  to  speak  with  her,'  says  she,  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand  that  made  Giueral  Washington  back  off  sideways  ;  '  only 
give  my  message,  good  woman,  and  here's  a  guinea  for  you.' 

"  Here  she  took  a  piece  of  gold  from  her  pocket,  and  held  it 
out." 

"  But  you  did  not  take  it,  Aunt  Polly  ?" 

"  Didn't  take  it !  trust  me  for  letting  a  bright  golden  guinea 
slip  through  these  fingers  when  it  can  be  honestly  come  by — of 
course  I  took  it." 

Here  Aunt  Polly  drew  forth  a  shot-bag  from  her  enormous 
pocket,  untied  the  tow  string,  and  exhibited  a  quantity  of  silver 
and  huge  copper  pennies,  and  from  among  them,  daintily  folded 
in  a  dry  maple  leaf,  she  took  a  bright  piece  of  gold. 

"  There  it  is,  harnsouie  as  a  yaller  bird,"  she  cried  exultingly. 
"  Look  at  it,  Mary — I  don't  mind  your  holding  it  a  minute  or  so 
in  your  hand.  Pd  like  to  see  any  woman  in  Wyoming  match 
that  I" 

"  I  never  saw  a  golden  guinea  before,"  said  Mary,  scanning 
the  coin  with  innocent  curiosity.  "  It  is  very  beautiful ;  but 
somehow,  Aunt  P^lly,  I  can't  help  wishing  you  hadn't  taken  it." 

"  Well,  if  you  think  so,"  said  the  old  maid,  eyeing  the  gold 
with  a  rueful  look,  "  if  you  really  think  so,  Mary  Derwent,  jest 
give  it  back  to  the  lady  when  she  comes.  I  don't  want  to  be 
mean,  nor  nothing,  but — but — no,  give  it  here — I  can  stand  a 
good  deal,  but  as  for  giving  up  money  when  it's  once  been  in  my 
puss,  that's  too  much  for  human  nature  to  put  up  with." 

She  snatched  eagerly  at  the  gold,  and,  with  a  grim  smile  upon 
her  mouth,  and  a  flush  about  the  eyes,  hustled  it  back  into  her 
shot-bag,  tied  the  strings  with  a  jerk,  and  crowded  the  treasure 


200  MART      DEKWENT. 

down  into  the  depths  of  her  pocket,  uttering  only  a  few  grim 
words  in  the  energetic  operation. 

"  There  now — I'd  like  to  see  anybody  strong  enough  to  get 
that  are  money  puss  out  of  this  ere  pocket,  that's  all !" 

Mary  felt  how  impossible  it  was  for  the  old  maid  to  release 
her  hold  on  money,  when  she  once  got  it  in  her  grasp  ;  so  with 
a  faint  smile,  which  made  the  stingy  old  soul  flush  about  the  eyes 
once  more,  she  turned  the  subject. 

"  At  sunset,  did  you  say,  Aunt  Polly  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  sunset  to-night,  and  you  wasn't  to  fail — I  promised 
that  much." 

"  Can  I  tell  Jane  or  grandmother  ?"  inquired  Mary,  thought 
fully. 

"  Not  on  no  account.  The  lady — for  anybody  that  dressed 
up  like  that,  with  a  pocket  full  of  gold,  must  be  a  lady,  anyhow 
you  can  fix  it — the  lady — says  she,  '  Tell  Mary  Derwent  to  come 
alone,'  and,  says  I,  '  she  shall,  if  my  name's  Polly  Carter.'  When 
my  word  is  giv,  it's  giv — so  you  must  go  down  to  the  spring  all 
alone,  jest  at  sundown,  Mary  Derwent." 

"  Yes,  I'll  go,"  said  Mary,  looking  wistfully  into  the  distance  ; 
"  of  course,  I'll  go." 

"  That's  a  good  gal — I  was  sure  you  would.  Now,  I'll  jest 
say  good  by  to  Miss  Derwent,  and  Giueral  Washington  and  I 
will  make  tracks  for  home." 

Aunt  Polly  strode  away  up  the  garden,  muttering  to  herself, 

"Wai,  I've  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone,  and  catch'd  a 
goldfinch  to  boot.  That  are  side-saddle  wasn't  mounted  for 
nothing.  If  vartue  al'es  gets  rewarded  in  this  way,  I'll  keep 
Gineral  Washington  agoing." 

These  muttered  thoughts  brought  the  old  maid  up  to  the  cabin, 
and  she  called  out  from  the  threshold, 

"  Jane,  remember  what  I  was  a-saying,  now  do.  When  will 
you  all  come  and  take  tea  with  me  ?  Shall  be  proper  glj,d  to 
see  you  any  time — the  sooner  the  better.  Good-bye,  Miss  Der 
went  ;  good-bye  all." 


THE      SERPENT      BRACELET.  201 

Here  Aunt  Polly  gave  a  comprehensive  sweep  of  the  hand, 
including  grandma  in  the  house,  Mary  in  the  garden,  and  Jane, 
who  stood  by  her  on  the  door-stone. 

"  Good-bye  all.  Come,  Janey,  set  me  on  the  other  side,  and 
I'll  speak  a  good  word  for  you  to  the  beaux,  when  they  come  to 
my  tavern." 

Jane  tied  a  handkerchief  over  her  head,  followed  the  old  maid 
to  the  cove,  unmoored  her  canoe,  and  soon  reached  the  western 
shore. 

Aunt  Polly  shook  her  by  the  hand,  repeated  a  world  of  grim 
advice,  then  mounted  the  bank  and  threw  out  her  handkerchief, 
as  a  signal  to  Gineral  Washington. 

That  inestimable  beast  had  made  the  best  of  his  time,  and  would 
willingly  have  stayed  longer  ;  but  seeing  his  mistress's  gorgeous 
signal  fluttering  in  the  air,  like  the  mainsail  of  a  schooner,  he 
made  one  more  desperate  crop  at  the  rich  herbage,  and  came 
trotting  decorously  forward,  with  the  foam  and  short  grass  drop 
ping  from  his  mouth  at  every  step. 

Aunt  Polly  replaced  the  bit,  let  out  an  inch  of  the  girth,  to 
accommodate  the  animal's  digestive  organs,  mounted  a  hemlock 
stump,  littered  all  round  with  fresh  chips,  and,  after  coaxing 
Gineral  Washington  into  the  right  position,  seated  herself  grimly 
on  the  side-saddle  and  rode  away. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE    SERPENT    BRACELET. 


MARY  DERWENT  was  restless  and  dreamy  all  day,  after  Aunt 
Polly  left  the  island.  Spite  of  herself,  she  was  sad — no  cause 
existed  now — Jane  was  safe  at  home,  sorry  for  her  indiscretion, 
at  heart,  no  doubt  ;  Butler,  she  hoped  and  believed,  had  left  the 


202  MAKY      DEKWENT 

Bailey — certainly  there  was  nothing  to  apprehend  nor  much  to 
regret — yet  tears  lay  close  to  those  beautiful  eyes  all  the  day 
long.  She  pined  to  hide  herself  in  some  quiet  place,  and  cry  all 
her  fancied  trouble  away.  The  strange  woman  was  before  her 
every  moment  ;  she  could  not,  with  any  force  of  will,  put  that 
picturesque  image  aside  ;  it  came,  like  the  shadow  from  some 
wild  dream,  and  took  full  possession  of  her. 

She  went  to  the  spring  early,  just  as  the  first  golden  waves  of - 
sunset  began  to  ripple  up  the  west.  The  blossoming  crab -apples 
flung  a  rosy  tint  above  her,  and  the  soft  whispers  of  the  spring  as 
it  ran  off  among  the  stones,  sounded  sad  and  tearful  as  the  breath 
in  her  bosom.  A  hundred  times  she  had  sat  in  that  place  before, 
but  never  with  that  hush  of  expectation,  or  that  dim  paleness 
upon  her  face. 

The  sunset  came  on  slowly — now  a  gleam  of  crimson,  now  of 
gold,  crept  with  its  warm  light  through  the  dusk  around  her. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  were  waiting  for  her  own  funeral — herself 
chief  mourner. 

How  often  she  had  seen  Edward  Clark  sitting  among  those 
stones  with  Jane  by  his  side,  while  she  sat  by,  so  little  regarded 
that  they  had  gone  on  with  their  sweet  love-talk  as  if  she  could 
not  hear.  How  often  had  she  been  condemned  to  listen  while  the 
very  sound  of  their  voices  was  torture.  And  now  Jane  was  ready 
to  fling  that  great  love  aside — a  few  flattering  words,  a  vague 
promise  of  luxury  and  greatness  had  been  enough.  Clark  was  at 
least  for  the  time  forgotten  ;  she  would  have  given  him  to  Mary 
carelessly  as  she  might  have  flung  a  withered  garland  into  her  lap. 
And  yet  the  young  man  loved  faithfully — a  word  from  Mary 
would  have  turned  his  heart  aside  in  disgust,  greater  perhaps 
than  this  temporary  inconstancy  deserved  ;  but  sad  and  desolate 
as  she  was,  the  gentle  girl  never  once  thought  of  this.  Her  only 
desire  was  to  win  Jane  back  to  her  old  love,  and  make  her  more 
worthy  of  his.  But  in  self-abnegation  there  is  always  a  tender 
sadness,  and  this  half  heavenly,  half  human  feeling  settled 
mournfully  on  her  beautiful  features  as  Mary  sat  and  waited. 


THE   SERPENT   BRACELET.        203 

There  was  no  sound,  for  the  Indian  moccasin  treads  lightly  as 
a  leaf  falls,  and  Catharine  Montour  stood  close  by  the  young  girl 
before  she  was  aware  of  any  human  approach.  / 

Mary  lifted  her  face  suddenly,  and  there,  revealed  by  golden 
gleams  of  light  that  penetrated  the  boughs,  she  saw  that  strange 
face,  surmounted  by  the  serpent  whose  blood-red  eyes  glittered 
on  her  like  a  venomous  asp  about  to  bite. 

Mary  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  are  the  lady  who  wished  me  to  be  here  ?" 

Her  voice  scarcely  rose  above  the  whispering  waters,  but 
Catharine  heard  it  distinctly.  Still  she  did  not  speak  at  once 
— some  unaccountable  emotion  checked  the  breath  on  her 
lips. 

"  Yes  ;  I  asked  a  woman  who  said  she  was  coming  here  to 
give  my  message .  You  are  very  kind  to  answer  it  so  promptly." 

These  were  not  the  words  Catharine  had  intended  to  say  ;  but 
the  gentle,  almost  holy  presence  of  that  young  girl  changed  the 
whole  current  of  her  feelings.  She  came  haughtily  as  an  inquisi 
tor  who  had  suffered  wrong,  but  remained  overpowered  by  the 
ineek  dignity  of  her  reception. 

"  I  had  seen  you  once  before,  lady,  and  was  glad  to  come." 

"  Seen  me,  child,  and  where  ?" 

41  At  the  ledge,  on  the  opposite  shore,  when  you  met  Walter 
Butler." 

"  And  you  heard  that  conversation  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  could  not  help  it.  Before  it  was  possible  to  get 
away  you  had  said  everything." 

"  Then  you  know  that  he  is  married  to  my  daughter  ?" 

"  I  know  that  he  is  married  to  a  young  Indian  girl,  who  may 
be  your  daughter.  The  missionary  told  me  of  the  marriage,  but 
nothing  more." 

"  And  your  sister — for  it  is  of  her  I  wish  to  speak,  it  is  her  I 
warn — did  she  know  this  ?" 

"  She  knows  it  now." 

"  Yet  last  night,  Tahmeroo,  my  daughter  the  bride  of  Walter 


204:  MAKY      DERWENT. 

Butler,  found  your  sister  here  under  these  very  branches  planning 
to  elope  with  him." 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  Mary,  shrinking  together,  and  turning 
pale  as  if  she,  not  Jane,  had  been  in  fault — "  I  know  it  ;  but 
that  is  all  over  now." 

"  Do  not  be  so  sure  of  that,  my  poor  child  ;  there  is  no  security 
against  treachery  and  weakness  ;  but  if  you  are  already  informed 
that  Walter  Butler  is  married  by  every  law  that  can  bind  two 
persons  for  life,  my  errand  here  is  half  done.  Last  night,  my  un 
happy  child  came  to  the  camp  wild  with  the  torture  that  wicked 
man  had  inflicted.  I  will  not  speak  harshly  of  your  sister  :  if 
her  folly  works  sharper  than  wickedness,  it  is  not  your  fa-alt  ; 
but  my  business  here  was  to  warn  her  of  the  danger  she  is 
braving.  I  did  not,  wish  to  see  a  person  whose  folly  has  already 
irritated  a  temper  not  particularly  placable,  but  sent  for  you, 
because  my  child  told  me  of  your  kindness — your  true  generous 
courage.  I  wished  to  thank  you — to  impress  you  with  the  dan 
ger  that  hangs  over  your  family  if  Tahineroo  receives  farther 
wrong  or  insult  here." 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  think  it  could  happen  again," 
answered  Mary  Derwent,  with  gentle  earnestness.  "  My  sister 
is  so  young — so  very,  very  beautiful,  that  she  is  not  content  with 
the  love  of  a  single  heart,  as  one  who  has  nothing  pleasant  about 
her  might  be.  It  is  only  a  fancy — a  wild  dream  with  her.  Pm 
sure  you  would  believe  it  could  you  see  how  dearly  she  is  loved 
by — by  one,  oh  1  so  much  superior  to  this  Captain  Butler." 

"  Then  your  sister  is  beloved — she  is  engaged,  perhaps  ?" 

"  Beloved — oh,  yes  1"  answered  Mary,  in  a  voice  so  sweetly 
mournful,  that  the  haughty  soul  of  Catharine  Montour  thrilled 
within  her.  "  They  are  engaged,  too,  I  believe.  You  know  it 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  live  near  Jane  and  not  wish  to 
marry  her.  As  for  him,  of  course,  she  cannot  help  loving  him — 
who  could  ?" 

The  last  two  words  were  uttered  in  a  sigh  so  deep  and  heart 
broken,  that  Catharine  felt  it  thrilling  through  her  own  frame. 


THE     SERPENT     BRACELET.  205 

Her  forest  life  had  never  possessed  the  power  to  dull  or  break 
that  one  string  in  her  heart;  it  was  sensitive  arid  tremulous  as 
ever.  She  understood  all  that  Mary  was  suffering,  and  back 
upon  her  soul  rushed  a  tide  of  sympathy  so  earnest  and  delicate, 
that  for  a  time  those  two  beings,  so  opposite  in  all  things  else, 
felt  painfully  together — the  one  sad  from  memory,  the  other 
suffering  under  the  weight  of  a  cruel  reality  eternally  present  in 
her  own  person. 

Unconsciously  Catharine's  right  hand  fell  upon  the  beautiful 
head,  which  bent  under  it  like  a  flower  on  its  stalk. 

"  Poor,  poor  child  1"  she  murmured,  and  tears  kept  resolutely 
from  her  eyes,  broke  forth  in  her  voice  :  "I  know  well  how  to 
feel  for  you." 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Mary.  "  One  so  grand — so  like  a  queen, 
could  not  feel  as  I  do;  I  never  expect  it.  In  the  wide  world 
there  is  not  another  girl  like  me.  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  the 
angels  would  only  give  me  pity-love  after  I  am  dead,  and  then 
there  would  be  no  heaven  for  me  either." 

"  And  are  you  so  lonely  of  heart  ?"  inquired  Catharine,  seating 
herself  on  the  stone  before  Mary,  and  taking  both  her  pale  little 
hands  with  a  kindly  clasp.  "  You  and  I  should  feel  for  each 
other  ;  for  the  same  rugged  path  lies  before  you  that  I  have  trod." 

"  The  same — oh  no,  lady  !  You  are  straight  and  proud  as  a 
poplar.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  go  through  life  with  your 
face  bent  to  the  ground,  and  the  heart  in  your  bosom  warm  and 
full  of  love  like  other  people's." 

"  Poor  soul,  arid  does  this  thought  trouble  you  so  ?  Are  you 
indeed  worse  off  than  I  have  been,  and  so  patient,  too  ?  Has 
the  wilderness  no  hiding-place  for  human  suffering  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  filled  with  her  own  thoughts. 
"  It  seems  as  if  I  never  could  hide  away ;  people  are  sure  to  find 
me  out  and  stare  at  me.  I  think  there  is  no  place  but  the  grave 
where  one  would  be  sure." 

Catharine  could  not  speak  ;  tears  overmastered  her,  and  fell 
down  her  face  like  rain. 


206  MART      DERWENT. 

"  Poor  soul,"  she  said,  "  how  can  I  comfort  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mary.  "  The  minister  sometimes  tries 
to  comfort  me,  but  I'm  afraid  he  has  gone  away  for  a  long  time  ; 
when  he  tells  me  that  I  can  be  useful,  and  make  others  happy 
just  as  I  am,  this  trouble  goes  oif  a  little.  Oh  1  ma'am,  I  wish 
you  could  know  the  minister;  or  if  you  really  care  about  making 
a  poor  girl  like  me  feel  better,  talk  as  he  does." 

"  Alas  !"  said  Catharine,  "  I  am  not  humble  and  good,  like 
him;  but  I  can  pity  these  feelings,  and  be  your  friend — a  more 
powerful  friend,  perhaps,  than  he  is,  for  I  can  protect  you  and 
yours  from  the  hatred  of  the  Indians." 

"  Oh,  but  the  Indians  are  my  friends  now;  they  love  me  a 
little  I  am  sure,  for  they  smile  when  I  speak  to  them,  and  call 
me  pet  names,  as  if  I  were  a  bird  ;  perhaps  it  is  because  the 
minister  likes  me  so  much." 

"  No;  it  is  because — because  of  your  " 

"  Of  this,"  said  Mary,  interrupting  her  with  a  frightened  look, 
and  touching  her  shoulder  with  one  hand.  "  Is  it  only  pity  with 
them,  too  ?" 

Catharine  looked  upon  that  pale  spiritual  face  with  ineffable 
compassion.  She  understood  all  the  sorrow  that  rendered  it  so 
painfully  beautiful. 

"  No,  my  child,  it  is  not  pity  with  them,  but  homage,  adoration. 
That  which  you  feel  as  a  deformity,  they  hold  to  be  a  sacred 
seal  of  holiness  which  the  Great  Spirit  sets  upon  his  own.  With 
them  you,  and  such  as  you,  are  held  only  as  little  lower  than  the 
angels.  This  superstition  may  yet  be  your  salvation,  but  a  time 
is  coming  when  even  that  will  not  be  enough  to  protect  you  from 
harm." 

"  What  !  would  the  Indians  kill  me— is  that  it  ?" 

"  They  are  savages,  and  hard  of  restraint ;  but  I  think  that 
nothing  human  could  be  found  to  harm  a  creature  so  good  and 
so  helpless." 

"  Then  you  think  they  could  not  be  brought  to  kill  me  ?"  said 
Mary,  with  a  look  almost  of  disappointment. 


THE      SERPENT     BRACELET  207 

"  Why,  you  speak  sadly,  like  one  who  wishes  death." 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

11  No,  I  dare  not  wish  death  ;  but  if  the  Indians  wanted  any 
one,  and  must  have  a  life,  they  couldn't  find  any  person  so  ready 
to  go,  I'm  sure." 

"  This  is  very  mournful,"  said  Catharine,  drawing  Mary's 
head,  with  all  its  loose  golden  hair,  to  her  bosom.  "  I  wish  the 
missionary,  or  any  one  else  were  here  to  console  you.  I  am 
struck  mute.  Yet  heaven  knows,  if  my  own  life  could  remove 
the  cause  of  your  sorrow,  I  would  lay  it  down  this  moment. 
Do  you  believe  me,  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  is  this  love  or  pity  ?" 

"  Pity  is  a  gentle  feeling,  but  it  would  not  urge  one  to  a  sacri 
fice  like  that.  Love,  compassion,  sentiment — I  do  not  know 
what  it  is;  but  I  solemnly  say  to  you,  Mary  Derwerit,  in  twenty 
years  I  have  not  felt  my  heart  swell  with  feelings  like  these — 
not  even  when  my  own  child  was  first  laid  in  my  bosom." 

"  It  is  love  ! — this  is  love  1"  cried  Mary,  joyfully  winding  her 
arms  around  Catharine  Montour's  neck,  and  laying  her  cheek  close 
to  the  proud  woman's  face.  "  I  think — I  am  sure  this  is  love  !" 

"  God  knows  it  is  some  holy  feeling  that  has  overtaken  mo 
unawares." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  love  is  a  holy  feeling  !" 

"  But  this  is  the  first  time  you  and  I  have  ever  met." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  don't  remember  this  moment — my  thoughts  will 
not  take  the  thing  in;  but  I  am  sure  we  shall  never  be  strangers 
again — that  we  never  were  strangers  in  all  our  lives.  At  first  I 
was  afraid  of  you:  now  I  should  like  to  follow  after  you  like  a 
wild  bird,  that  you  would  feed  sometimes  with  crumbs  from  your 
hands,  and  call  me  by  pretty  pet  names.  I  should  like,  of  all 
things,  to  watch  over  you  in  the  night,  and  keep  everything  still 
that  you  might  dream  sweet  dreams.  That  beautiful  girl,  your 
daughter,  should  not  care  for  you  more  than  I.  Is  not  this 
love,  dear  lady  ?" 

"  It  is  something  very  heavenly,"  said  Catharine  Montour. 


208  MARY      DERWENT. 

"  I  dread  to  have  it  pass  away,  and  yet  it  must  1" 

"Must!   And  why?" 

"  Because  all  things  beautiful  do  pass  away — love  with  the 
rest,  nothing  is  immortal  here." 

"  But  yonder,"  said  Mary,  pointing  upward,  where  a  young 
moon  rode  the  sky  like  a  golden  shallop  laden  with  pearls. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  that,"  answered  Catharine,  with  momen 
tary  impatience."  "  It  is  at  best  a  land  of  dreams  and  conjec 
tures  to  us  all,"  but  we  will  not  talk  of  that  deep  mystery — the 
future,  my  child.  I  would  not  willingly  disturb  any  belief  that 
can  make  you  happier.  I  can  dream  no  longer,  hope  no  more — 
mine  will  be  a  life  of  wild  action,  and  then  " 

"  And  then — "  repeated  Mary,  turning  her  pure  eyes  upward, 
"  and  then,  there  is  a  God  above,  and  rest,  eternal  rest — yet 
eternal  action  too,  with  his  angels." 

"  Who  taught  you  these  things  ;  surely  this  is  not  the  language 
of  a  frontier  settlement  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  with  sweet  though tfulness,  "  such 
ideas  spring  up  most  naturally  I  should  think  in  the  woods  which 
God  alone  has  touched  ;  men  teach  us  words,  but  thought  comes 
to  us,  I  am  sure,  as  flowers  spring  from  the  gi^tss  ;  we  scarcely 
know  when  they  shoot,  bud,  or  blossom,  till  their  breath  is  all 
around  us.  I  cannot  remember,  lady,  that  any  one  ever  taught 
me  to  think." 

"  Not  the  mission o.ry  ?" 

"  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  unawares — but  no,  he  told  me 
once,  I  remember,  that  God  himself  sent  me  many  thoughts  that 
other  children  never  have,  in  order  to  be  company  for  me  when 
I  sit  alone  in  the  woods.  So  after  all,  dear  lady,  the  missionary 
understands  what  they  mean,  and  tells  me  j  that  is  all.  The 
thoughts  come  from  God  himself." 

Catharine  Montour  was  weeping,  for  that  gentle  girl  had 
found  the  well-spring  of  her  nature  ;  laying  her  cheek  down 
upon  those  golden  tresses,  which  remained  on  her  bosom,  silent 
from  tender  reverence. 


THE     SERPENT     BRACELET.  209 

"  Are  these  thoughts  so  strange  that  you  wonder  at  them  ?" 
asked  Mary. 

"  Yes,  they  are  very  strange  to  me  now." 

"  Don't  let  them  be  strangers  after  this,  dear  lady,"  when  you 
send  them  away,  as  I  did  once,  it  is  like  turning  angels  out  of 
doors.  Catharine  sobbed  for  the  first  time,  in  years  and  years. 

"  When  they  come  swarming  around  your  heart,"  continued 
Mary,  "  let  them  in,  for  they  are  pleasant  company,  and,  better 
than  all,  crowd  so  much  trouble  out." 

"  Alas,"  said  Catharine,  covering  her  face  with  both  hands  in 
a  burst  of  sorrow,"  it  is  long  since  these  thoughts  have  visited 
me." 

"  That  is  because  you  keep  the  door  shut  against  them  I  dare 
say  ;  but  it  is  open  now  or  you  would  not  cry  so  ;  gentle 
thoughts  always  follow  tears,  just  as  violets  start  after  a  brook 
overflows." 

Catharine  stooped  forward  with  one  hand  to  her  brow  ;  she 
could  not  realize  that  tears  were  dropping  so  fast  from  her  eyes, 
or  that  any  human  voice  possessed  the  power  of  unlocking  such 
feelings  of  tenderness  in  her  soul.  She  who  had  become  iron, 
scarcely  recognized  her  own  identity  when  the  old  nature  came 
back.  Mary  grew  anxious  at  her  long  silence. 

"  Have  I  offended  you,  lady,"  she  said,  pressing  her  timid 
little  hand  on  that  which  lay  in  Catharine's  lap." 

"  Offended  me  !     Oh,  no,  no." 

"  Please  look  up  then  ;  while  you  stoop  the  shadows  fall  around 
you  like  a  mourning  cloak  and  I  grow  chilly  ;  hark,  what  is 
that  ?" 

Catharine  Moantour  started  up,  for  a  low  cry  like  that  of 
some  wild  animal  in  pain  sounded  from  the  water.  "  It  is  my 
Indians,"  she  said  hurriedly  ;  "  they  are  restive  at  this  long  stay — 
I  must  go  now  or  they  will  come  in  search  of  me." 

"  But  not  far — not  forever,  lady,  I  have  only  seen  you  twice 
in  all  my  life  ;  but  it  seems  as  if  a  stone  had  fallen  on  my  heart 
when  I  think  that  you  may  never  come  back." 

14 


210  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  I  will  come  back,  trust  me  I  will.  How  and  when  it  is  im 
possible  for  me  to  say  ;  but  rest  certain  we  shall  meet  again, 
and  that  for  good  to  us  both." 

"  But  soon — oh,  tell  me  that  it  will  be  soon." 

"  I  cannot  say,  these  are  wild  times  on  the  frontier,  and  worse 
may  be  expected  ;  but  if  danger  comes  I  shall  not  be  far  from 
you  ;  rest  sure  of  that." 

Mary  looked — oh,  so  wistfully — into  the  lady's  face. 

"  And  will  there  be  danger  for  you  ?" 

"  None,  child  I  but  you  and  the  inhabitants  of  this  valley 
will  be  forever  in  peril.  Stay,  put  back  the  sleeve  from  your 
arm,  undo  this  bracelet,  a  gleam  of  moonlight  strikes  the  spring 
just  here — so  !" 

As  she  spoke,  Mary  touched  the  clasp  pointed  out,  and  directly 
one  of  the  serpent  bracelets  uncoiled  from  Catharine's  wrist,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  living  thing,  and  she  wound  it  on  Mary's  arm, 
above  the  elbow,  shutting  the  spring  with  a  noise  that  sounded 
like  a  hiss. 

"  It  will  guard  you,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  There  is  not  a  Shawnee 
savage  who  does  not  hold  that  sign  sacred,  nor  one  among  the 
Six  Tribes  who  will  not  protect  its  wearer — keep  it  on  your  arm 
night  and  day,  till  we  meet  again. 

"  I  came  here  to  learn  all  that  relates  to  your  sister's  acquaint 
ance  with  Walter  Butler,  to  warn  her  of  the  peril  which  will 
surely  follow  her  reckless  daring,  if  she  even  sees  him  or  speaks 
with  him  again  ;  but  somehow  you  have  led  my  thoughts  far  from 
the  subject,  and  there  is  no  time  for  much  that  I  intended  to 
say.  But  I  have  no  fear  that  under  your  influence,  this  girl  can 
wrong  my  daughter." 

Before  Mary  could  speak,  a  long  kiss  was  pressed  on  her  fore 
head — a  rustling  of  the  branches  as  they  swayed  to  their  places, 
and  she  was  alone — more  alone  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her 
life. 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  211 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE. 

IN  the  Mohawk  Valley,  about  four  miles  north  of  Fouda, 
stands  to  this  day  the  first  baronial  mansion  ever  erected  in  the 
state  of  New  York.  Its  present  proprietor,  Mr.  Eleazer  Wells, 
has,  with  unusual  good  taste,  preserved  the  old  mansion  with  all 
its  historical  associations  undisturbed,  and  even  in  this  age  of 
republican  palaces,  the  old  Johnson  House  would  be  considered 
a  noble  mansion.  Its  broad  front,  flanked  at  each  end  by  mas 
sive  block-houses  of  stone,  perforated  near  the  roof  with  holes 
for  musketry,  has  an  imposing  appearance.  The  broad  entrance- 
hall,  with  heavy  ballustrades  winding  up  the  stairs,  all  hacked 
by  savage  tomahawks  ;  its  high  ceilings  ;  its  rooms  wainscoted 
with  panel  work,  and  ornamented  with  elaborate  carving — all 
speak  of  former  wealth  and  power. 

In  1775-6,  this  mansion  was  occupied  by  Sir  John  Johnson, 
the  heir  of  Sir  William,  its  first  proprietor,  whose  loyalty  to  the 
crown,  and  cruelty  to  the  patriots  of  the  Revolution,  are  on 
record  forever  in  the  history  of  the  great  period  of  our  national 
struggles.  Then  the  hall  was  surrounded  with  forests,  deep, 
broad,  and  seemingly  boundless  as  the  ocean.  Sir  William  had 
hewed  an  estate  out  of  this  wilderness,  which  lay  upon  a  gentle 
slope,  like  a  beautiful  glimpse  of  Arcadia,  surrounded  and  framed 
in  by  the  woods. 

The  season  had  deepened  since  the  Indians  were  encamped 
in  the  Wyoming  Valley.  The  cultivated  trees,  then  in  blossom  all 
over  the  country,  had  set  their  fruit  ;  Indian  corn  was  half  a  foot 
high  ;  and  the  wheat  fields  looked  like  meadows  ready  for  the 
scythe.  The  thickets  around  Johnson  Hall  had  cast  off  their 
flowers,  and  were  now  heavy  with  leaves  and  swelling  nuts.  The 
whole  region  was  beautiful,  as  if  no  war  existed  in  the  world. 


212  MART      DERWENT. 

It  was  just  after  dusk  on  one  of  these  late  spring  days, 
when  a  horseman,  with  two  or  three  Indians  in  his  train,  rode 
up  to  the  front  of  this  mansion,  inquired  for  Sir  John  Johnson, 
and  dismounted,  like  a  person  well  acquainted  with  the  premises, 
and  certain  of  a  cordial  reception.  The  Indians  followed  him  to 
the  front  portico,  and  sat  down  on  the  steps,  waiting  in  solemn 
patience  for  his  return. 

Walter  Butler  entered  the  hall  unannounced,  and  opening  a 
side  door,  stood  some  moments  on  the  threshold  before  its  in 
mates  became  aware  of  his  presence.  It  was  after  dusk  ;  but 
Sir  William  Johnson  had  carried  all  the  aristocratic  arrange 
ments  of  his  European  life  into  the  wilderness,  and  those  habits 
were  strictly  followed  up  by  his  son.  Thus,  late  as  the  hour  was, 
Sir  John  remained  at  table  with  a  guest  who  shared  his  hospi 
tality,  and  as  the  wine  passed  sluggishly  between  them,  the  two 
men  conversed  together  with  more  earnestness  than  is  usual  at 
the  dinner  table. 

Butler  was  well  acquainted  with  Sir  John — a  handsome  young 
ish-looking  man,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  a  little  flushed 
either  with  wine  or  some  excitement  of  suppressed  temper,  and 
apparently  doing  the  honors  of  his  own  house  with  unusual  con 
straint.  The  other  person,  who  sat  quietly  picking  over  the  nuts 
on  his  plate — for  the  meal  was  evidently  at  its  conclusion — was 
a  tall  man,  a  little  past  middle  age,  and  of  a  calm,  lofty  presence, 
difficult  to  describe,  except  by  its  contrast  with  the  restless  and 
somewhat  coarse  manner  of  the  frontier  baronet.  The  repose 
of  his  appearance  was  perfect ;  yet  there  was  a  faint  red  on  his 
cheek,  and  a  scarcely  perceptible  curve  of  the  lip,  that  betrayed 
deep  though  well  curbed  emotions,  which  had  received  some 
shock. 

Butler  had  never  seen  this  man  before,  and  his  presence  was 
by  no  means  agreeable  ;  the  interview  which  he  desired  with  Sir 
John  was  of  a  kind  which  rendered  witnesses  unpleasant,  and  for 
an  instant  he  paused  in  the  door,  hesitating  to  enter.  Sir  John 
supposed  it  was  a  servant,  and  went  on  with  his  conversation. 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  213 

"  No,"  he  said,  a  little  roughly,  "  you  on  the  other  side  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  understand  the  necessity  of  these  measures. 
It  is  easy  enough  making  speeches  in  the  House  of  Lords  or 
Commons — humanity  serves  well  to  round  off  an  eloquent  period 
with,  I  dare  say — but  we  live  in  the  midst  of  dangers  ;  the  war 
is  a  real  thing  to  us  j  we  do  not  study  it  out  on  a  parchment 
map,  while  lolling  in  a  cushioned  easy-chair,  but  tramp  after  the 
rebels  through  swamps  and  over  mountains.  If  we  burn  their 
cabins,  they  retaliate  on  our  halls — nothing  is  safe  from  them. 
Why,  the  very  plate  off  which  you  are  dining  will  be  stowed 
away  in  the  block-house,  under  a  guard  of  muskets,  for  safe 
keeping,  the  moment  it  leaves  the  table." 

"The  loss  of  your  plate,  Sir  John,  costly  as  it  is,  would  be  a 
trifle,  compared  to  one  burning  cabin,  where  the  bones  of  women 
and  children  are  found  in  the  ashes,"  said  the  stranger,  casting  a 
careless  glance  at  the  gold  and  silver  plate  glittering  on  every  part 
of  the  board.  "  I  would  consent  to  dine  upon  a  wooden  trencher, 
all  the  days  of  my  life,  if  that  could  save  one  of  these  innocent 
families  from  destruction.  I  repeat  it,  Sir  John,  the  savage  war 
fare  commenced  in  this  neighborhood,  is  shocking  to  humanity. 
If  the  rights  of  our  king  can  only  be  maintained  by  hordes  of 
savages,  let  them  go  ;  the  loyalty  of  an  enlightened  people  will 
never  be  secured  by  barbarisms,  at  which  even  the  better  edu 
cated  savage  revolts.  This  league  with  the  Six  Nations  is  in 
human,  nay,  a  statesman  would  say,  worse — it  is  bad  policy." 

"  It  holds  the  traitors  in  fear,  at  any  rate.  They  dare  not  be 
insolent  when  the  war  reddens  their  hearths." 

"  As  a  Commissioner  of  the  King,  Sir  John,  I  protest  against 
the  introduction  of  savage  tribes  into  his  Majesty's  army.  It 
may  be  carried  out  in  violence  to  this  opinion,  for  in  war  men 
become  ruthless  ;  but  so  far  as  I  have  influence  with  the  Minis 
try,  this  odious  policy  shall  not  prevail." 

Butler,  regardless  of  the  low  breeding  exhibited  by  the  act, 
stood  in  the  door,  and  listened  to  this  conversation  ;  but  as 


214:  MARY   DERWENT. 

the  stranger  ceased  speaking,  Sir  John  looked  up,  and  called  out 
cheerfully,  like  one  who  greets  a  much-needed  ally  : 

"  Ha,  Butler,  is  it  you  ?  Come  in — come  in  ;  we  are  just  dis 
cussing  a  subject  with  which  you  are  more  familiar  than  I  am. 
Mr.  Murray,  this  gentleman  belongs  to  the  king's  army — Capt. 
Walter  Butler,  of  the  Tryon  Kangers.  As  half  his  fathers's 
forces  are  Indians,  he  will  be  able  to  speak  advisedly  on  the  ques 
tion  we  were  discussing,  or,  I  am  afraid,  almost  disputing." 

The  two  gentlemen  saluted  each  other  rather  distantly.  Then 
Butler  turned  to  his  host,  and  said,  with  a  dash  of  off-handed  im 
pudence  : 

"  No  war  or  politics  for  me,  Sir  John.  I  came  on  a  very  dif 
ferent  errand  ;  so  cut  the  field  and  give  me  some  dinner,  unless 
your  negroes  in  the  kitchen  are  hacking  away  at  the  venison  and 
roast-beef  as  usual,  before  the  master  is  through  with  his  dessert." 

Sir  John  laughed,  knocked  on  the  table  with  the  handle  of  his 
knife,  and  ordered  the  black  slave,  who  obeyed  the  summons,  to 
see  that  something  was  sent  up  from  the  kitchen  fit  for  a  gentle 
man  to  eat. 

The  slave  grinned  till  his  white  teeth  glittered  again,  and  went 
lazily  towards  the  kitchen.  Meantime  Butler  went  into  the  hall, 
threw  his  hat  and  whip  on  a  table,  and  strode  back  with  his 
spurs  ringing  on  the  sanded  floor,  and  his  fine  hair  half  escap 
ing  from  the  crimson  ribbon  that  gathered  it  in  a  queue  behind. 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  on  a 
seat,  and  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  table,  with  his  back  half 
turned  upon  the  stately  guest.  "  Pray,  congratulate  me,  Sir 
John.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  it  is  a  married  man  you  have  the 
honor  of  entertaining." 

"  Hallo,  Butler,  what  is  this  ?  Married — what — you  ?  Non 
sense  1" 

"  True  as  the  gospel,  upon  my  honor." 

"  But  the  bride — where  on  earth  did  you  find  the  bride  ?" 

"  Among  the  wigwams.     Like  your  honored  father,  Sir  John, 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  215 

I  have  a  fancy  for  picturesque  women.  My  wife  is  a  half- 
breed — no,  I  ain  too  deep — she  is  a  white  on  her  mother's  side, 
and  half  Indian  in  the  paternal  line,  but  bright  as  a  hawk, 
sharp  as  steel,  and  moves  like  a  panther." 

"  And  you  have  married  an  Indian  girl — absolutely  and  lawful 
ly  married  her  ?" 

"Absolutely  and  lawfully  married  her,"  answered  Butler,  tak 
ing  a  knife  from  the  table,  tapping  the  cloth  with  its  silver 
handle,  and  nodding  his  head,  as  if  he  were  beating  time  to 
music.  "  Handcuffed  for  life.  No  jumping  the  broomstick  in 
this  affair  ;  none  of  that  Indian  hospitality  which  your  father 
installed,  but  a  downright,  honest  marriage,  done  to  a  turn,  by 
an  ordained  minister  of  the  church,  and  served  up  with  this 
order,  which  you  will  please  countersign  or  cash  without  delay." 

Sir  John  took  the  document  extended  to  him,  and  read  it  with 
evident  surprise. 

"  Catharine  Montour  ;  it  is  her  signature  and  secret  mark. 
In  Heaven's  name,  where  did  you  get  this  document,  Butler  ?" 

"  From  the  lady's  own  fair  hand.  You  recognize  her  writing, 
it  seems,  and  I  hope  hold  possession  of  the  needful  mentioned. 
Rather  a  good  speculation  for  a  clasp  of  the  hands,  locked  by  a 
dozen  words  of  nonsense,  ha  I" 

"  I  do  not  comprehend." 

"  You  understand  the  draft,  and  that  is  the  most  important 
thing  just  now,  Sir  John  ;  as  for  the  rest,  it  is  a  pill  which  I  can 
swallow  without  the  help  of  friends." 

Sir  John  laid  the  draft  down  upon  the  table,  and  began  to 
smoothe  the  paper  with  both  his  hands,  regarding  it  with  a  puz 
zled,  doubtful  look,  like  one  who  cannot  make  up  his  mind  how 
to  act. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  regarding  the  funds,  I  hope,"  said  Butler, 
growing  meanly  anxious  at  this  hesitation. 

"  No,"  was  the  hesitating  reply  ;  "  but  have  you  any  know 
ledge  of  the  position  in  which  a  marriage  with  Catharine  Mon- 
tour's  daughter  places  you  ?" 


216  MARY      DERWENT. 

Now,  Butler  had  no  information  on  this  ^subject,  nor  had  he 
ever  heard  it  mentioned  ;  but  he  saw  by  Sir  John's  manner 
that  some  mystery  was  kept  from  him,  and,  with  characteristic 
cunning,  hinted  at  a  knowledge  which  he  did  not  possess. 

"  Have  I  any  knowledge  of  my  position  ?  Now,  that  is  too 
good,  Sir  John  ;  can  yon  possibly  suppose  me  fool  enough  to 
marry  the  girl  with  anything  unexplained  ?" 

"  Then  you  know  who  Catharine  Montour  really  was,  and  to 
what  her  daughter  is  heiress  ?" 

"  Know  ?  of  course.     Do  I  look  like  buying  a  pig  in  a  poke  ?" 

"  Complimentary  to  your  bride,  at  any  rate  ;  but  I  am  glad 
Lady  Granby  has  been  frank  at  last." 

Butler  started,  but  his  surprise  was  nothing  to  the  effect  the 
announcement  of  that  name  made  upon  the  king's  commissioner. 
He  started  from  his  chair  with  the  sharp  spasmodic  movement  of  a 
man  shot  through  the  heart.  His  forehead  contracted,  his  lips 
grew  white  as  marble.  Sir  John  shrunk  from  the  terrible  ex 
pression  of  that  face.  ^ 

"  Lady  Granby — Lady  Granby  1" 

The  words  dropped  from  his  lips  like  hail  stones  when  a  storm 
is  spent.  He  began  to  shake  and  quiver  in  all  his  limbs,  then  fell 
into  his  chair,  with  one  elbow  on  the  table  shrouding  his  face. 
Sir  John  and  Butler  looked  at  each  other  in  dumb  astonishment ; 
the  sudden  passion  of  that  man  was  like  the  burst  of  a  volcano 
which  gives  forth  no  warning  smoke.  The  silence  became  op 
pressive. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  the  lady  ?"  inquired  Butler,  who  respect 
ed  no  man's  feelings,  and  never  allowed  laws  of  etiquette  to  in 
terfere  with  his  curiosity. 

Murray  withdrew  the  hand  slowly  from  his  face,  and  Wtoked  at 
his  questioner  with  dull,  dreamy  eyes  for  some  moments.  The 
eager  curiosity  in  that  face  brought  back  his  thoughts  ;  he  was 
not  a  man  to  expose  his  heart  long  under  a  gaze  like  that. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  "The  Granby 
title  is  among  the  most  ancient  in  our  country,  and  the  more 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  217 

remarkable  because  the  entail  extends  to  females  of  the  blood  as 
well  as  males." 

"  Ha  ! — is  that  so,  Johnson  ?"  inquired  Butler,  quickly. 

"Yes.  This  fact  was  among  the  secrets  intrusted  to  my 
father,  and  transmitted  to  me." 

"  And  the  estates  must  be  very  large  to  allow  of  accumulations 
like  the  deposits  in  your  custody,"  said  Butler,  keenly  alive  to 
his  own  interests. 

"  I  believe  they  are  among  the  finest  in  England,"  said  Sir 
John,  drily. 

Butler  started  up,  and  walked  the  room,  urged  into  action  by 
selfish-excitement.  Murray  again  shaded  his  face  with  one  hand, 
while  Sir  John  examined  the  draft  once  more. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  inquired  Butler,  at  last,  "  are  you  sure,  Sir 
John,  that  this  lady  was  legally  married  to  Queen  Esther's  son, 
for,  after  all,  everything  depends  on  that  ?" 

"  Sir  John  smiled  a  little  sarcastically.  Butler  was  too  coarse 
in  his  selfishness  not  to  be  understood.  Murray  again  looked  up. 
He  evidently  felt  a  keen  interest  in  the  question. 

"  She  was  legally  married,  I  fancy.  Whatever  might  have 
been  the  cause  which  drove  her  to  the  wilderness,  Lady  Granby 
was  not  a  person  to  degrade  herself  knowingly." 

"  You  fancy,  Sir  John  I  I  should  like  to  have  some  security 
besides  a  man's  fancy  where  an  inheritance  like  this  is  con 
cerned.  You  are  certain,  sir,  that  the  property  is  entailed — that 
female  heirs  come  in,  in  short" 

"  In  short,"  interrupted  Sir  John,  with  cutting  sarcasm,  "  I 
have  no  fear  that  your  interests  are  in  peril,  unless  there  is  some 
informality  in  her  mother's  marriage  ;  your  wife  is  the  legal 
heiress  of  the  Granby  estates." 

Butler  sat  down  again,  struck  breathless  by  this  unexpected 
good  fortune,  so  far  beyond  his  wildest  hopes. 

"  You  mistook  my  meaning,"  he  said,  even  his  coarse  nature 
becoming  conscious  of  the  revolting  light  in  which  his  conduct 
must  appear  to  any  observer  ;  "  I  was  thinking  of  Tahmeroo — 


218  MARY      DEE  WENT. 

she  is  too  lovely  a  flower  to  waste  her  bloom  in  the  wilder 
ness." 

"  You  grow  poetical,  sir,"  said  Sir  John,  laughing  ;  "  your 
wife's  perfections  are  dawning  upon  you  with  new  force." 

Butler  did  not  appear  to  notice  this  remark,  but  went  on  with 
his  own  train  of  reflection. 

"  Then  were  Catharine  Montour  dead,  no  power  could  deprive 
Tahmeroo  of  the  Granby  estates  and  title  ?" 

"  None,  sir  ;  the  daughter  of  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  the  Shawnee  chief, 
will  be  Countess  of  Granby." 

Murray  started  anew  at  that  name  so  rudely  uttered,  his 
hand  clenched  itself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  a  spasm  of 
wounded  pride  contracted  his  forehead.  With  a  powerful  effort,  he 
mastered  himself  once  more,  and  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  with  his 
face  turned  from  the  light,  and  listening  with  apparent  calmness 
to  their  conversation. 

"  And  the  rents,"  said  Butler,  "the  income — you  have  an  idea 
of  its  amount  ?" 

"  Have  you  never  ascertained  ?"  asked  Sir  John. 

"  Not  exactly — you  see  Catharine  Montour  dislikes  to  speak 
of  anything  connected  with  her  past  life,  and  it  is  difficult  to  get 
a  clear  answer  from  her  concerning  the  actual  amount  of  the 
property." 

"  Then,  sir,  I,  of  course,  am  not  at  liberty  to  betray  anything 
which  she  sees  fit  to  keep  secret." 

"  But  there  can  be  no  treason  in  asking  a  question  concerning 
a  fortune  which  will  one  day  be  my  own  ?" 

"  There  may  be  none  in  your  asking,  if  you  think  it  proper," 
returned  Sir  John  ;  "  but  it  certainly  would  be  treachery  in 
me  to  expose  anything  which  the  lady  desires  to  remain 
untold." 

"  You  inherit  all  of  your  father's  chivalry/'  retorted  Butler, 
insolently.  "  Doubtless  he  had  good  reason  for  keeping  the 
lady's  secrets." 

A  flush  shot  up  to  Sir  John's  forehead,  and  his  lips  compressed 


* 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  219 

themselves  suddenly  ;  but  restraining  his  anger,  he  replied  with 
unmoved  courtesy  : 

"  I  trust  that  I  possess  the  chivalry  which  should  be  the 
birthright  of  every  true  gentleman.  As  for  my  father,  no  man 
trifles  with  his  name  or  memory  here." 

"  Well,  that  is  vastly  fine  ;  but  plain  speech  in  these  days 
helps  a  man  along  faster  than  the  chivalry  of  all  the  old  cru 
saders  could  do,"  said  Butler,  carelessly.  "  Out  in  the  woods 
here,  fine  speeches  and  poetic  sentiments  are  thrown  away." 

"That  depends  entirely  upon  the  persons  with  whom  one 
chances  to  come  in  contact.  I  have  seen  as  true  gentlemen  in 
the  wilds  of  this  new  world  as  I  ever  met  at  the  court  of  a  Euro 
pean  sovereign." 

"  Of  course,"  returned  Butler,  laughing  ;  "  you  and  I  live  here, 
you  know,  following  your  grand  old  father's  example." 

Sir  John's  lip  curled,  for  this  attempt  at  playfulness  was  even 
more  distasteful  to  him  than  the  man's  previous  conversation 
had  been,  and  without  reply  he  resumed  his  scrutiny  of  the  docu 
ment  which  Butler  had  placed  in  his  hands. 

"  What  the  deuce  could  have  put  it  into  Catharine  Montour's 
head  to  come  out  here  and  marry  my  dusky  father-in-law  ?" 
continued  the  young  man.  "  She  must  have  been  mad — or 
worse  " 

"  Doubtless  she  is  a  better  judge  of  her  own  actions  than  either 
you  or  I,"  replied  Sir  John,  losing  all  patience  with  his  guest. 

"  Oh,  I'll  wager  that  she  had  some  good  reason,"  sneered  But 
ler,  irritated  by  the  other's  haughtiness,  and  his  own  failure  at 
discovering  the  amount  of  fortune  which  he  hoped  one  day  to 
claim.  "  Women  don't  do  those  out-of-the-way  things  unless 
they  are  forced.  Now,  be  honest,  Sir  John,  and  tell  me  why 
this  woman  left  a  high  position  and  great  wealth  in  her  own 
country,  and  came  here  to  act  the  part  of  a  Shawnee  squaw  in 
the  valley  of  the  Mohawk." 

"  There  are  many  good  motives  which  might  have  prompted 
an  act  like  that,"  said  Sir  John,  gravely  :  "  the  good  which  she 


220  MARY      DERWENT. 

could  do  among  those  ignorant  savages — the  forbearance  and 
cessation  from  cruelty  which  she  is  able  to  teach  them  " 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  Catch  an  old  bird  with  chaff,  if  you 
can  !  No,  no,  I'm  not  fool  enough  to  believe  that  Catharine 
Montour  came  over  here  for  any  such  reason !  There's  some 
confounded  mystery  somewhere,  and  sooner  or  later,  I'll  get  to 
the  bottom  of  it.  Take  my  head  for  a  target,  if  you  don't  find 
that  my  Lady  Granby  had  played  out  her  game  in  England,  and 
found  it  convenient  to  disappear  from  among  the  haughty  dames 
of  England." 

"  Stop,  sir  !"  exclaimed  a  low  voice,  that  made  both  listeners 
start,  as  if  a  thunder-clap  had  burst  over  their  heads.  "  Couple 
the  Lady  Granby's  name  with  insult  again,  and  it  is  to  me  that 
you  must  answer  for  it  1" 

Murray  had  risen  from  his  seat,  and  stood  before  the  aston 
ished  man  with  burning  eyes  and  a  brow  of  iron. 

"  What  the  deuce  have  I  said  ?"  muttered  Butler. 

"  You  have  said  that  wliich  I  cannot  allow  to  remain  un 
answered,  Captain  Butler,"  answered  Sir  John,  with  more  dignity 
than  he  had  yet  assumed.  "  One  portion  of  your  question  I  can 
answer  without  betraying  confidence  which  was  sacred  with  Sir 
William,  and  rests  so  with  me.  You  ask,  why  a  high-born  Eng 
lish  lady  forsook  her  own  land  to  become  the  wife  of  an  Indian 
chief?  Why  she  left  England,  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  ;  but, 
upon  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  it  was  from  no  unworthy  act  or 
motive — her  career  had  been  a  proud  and  blameless  one,  as  this 
gentleman  can,  doubtless,  testify  ;  but  the  deeper  reasons  which 
influenced  this  expatriation,  no  human  being,  except  herself,  has 
ever  possessed  the  power  to  explain." 

"  Nor  why  she  took  up  with  a  swarthy  Indian  when  she  got 
here — that  is  one  of  her  delicate  mysteries  also,  I  dare  say,"  re 
torted  Butler,  growing  insolent  under  the  stern  glances  turned 
upon  him  by  the  English  Commissioner.  "  Come,  come,  Johnson, 
it's  hardly  worth  while  exhausting  eloquence  on  the  subject  ;  the 
whole  affair  has  given  me  a  picturesque  little  wildcat  of  a  wife, 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  221 

who  loves  me  like  a  tempest.  Better  than  this,  she  promises  to 
make  me  a  potentate,  one  of  these  days,  unless  the  lady-mother 
outlives  her,  which  may  happen  after  all,  for  she  has  the  vigor 
and  health  of  a  tigress.  As  for  disinheriting  her  child,  or  any 
thing  of  that  sort,  she  hasn't  the  power,  thank  my  stars.  But 
the  main  question  is  left  out,  after  -all  :  how  and  where  was 
Catharine  Montour  married  to  the  Shawnee  Chief?  Was  it  a 
ceremony  which  our  English  laws  hold  valid  ?  If  not,  my  wild 
bird  has  nothing  but  her  pretty  plumage  after  all." 

"  Do  you  consider  this  nothing  ?"  said  Sir  John,  holding  up 
the  draft. 

"  Faith,  I  don't  know.  It  seemed  a  good  deal  when  I  presented 
it ;  but  now  that  I  have  learned  how  much  remains  behind,  it 
seems  as  if  my  queenly  mamma  had  treated  me  rather  shabbily." 

"  Sir  John,  forgive  me,  but  you  have  not  answered  Captain 
Butler's  question  :  by  what  train  of  circumstances  was  a  lady  so 
delicate  in  all  her  tastes  as  Lady  Granby,  led  into  a  union  with 
a  savage  ?  Surely  it  could  not  have  been  of  her  own  free  will," 
said  the  commissioner. 

"  If  a  martyr  ever  went  to  the  stake  of  his  own  will — if  self-ab 
negation  of  any  kind  is  free — this  lady  did  voluntarily  marry  the 
Indian  Chief.  It  was  a  sublime  sacrifice,  which  every  true  man 
must  regard  with  homage — an  act  of  chivalric  humanity  of  which 
few  women,  and  scarcely  a  man  on  earth,  would  have  been 
capable." 

u  I  can  well  believe  it,"  exclaimed  Murray,  with  kindling  eyes. 

"  Then  she  was  decidedly  married,"  cried  Butler,  faithful  to 
his  mercenary  instincts,  and  hunting  that  one  fact  down  like  a 
hound. 

"  I  saw  her  married  myself,  on  the  steps  of  this  very  mansion, 
where  she  stood  like  a  priestess  between  two  races — for  the  hall 
was  crowded  with  whites,  of  which  my  father,  Sir  William,  was 
the  head  ;  while  on  the  lawn,  in  the  thickets,  and  all  around,  belt 
ing  the  forest,  three  thousand  warriors  were  gathered.  The  whole 
Six  Nations  were  represented  by  their  bravest  chiefs.  It  was  a 


222  MARY      DERWENT. 

sight  to  remember  one's  lifetime.  The  red  sunset  streamed 
through  the  forest  trees,  only  a  little  more  gorgeous  thaii  the 
eavage  groups  that  camped  under  them.  The  windows  of  the 
Hall  blazed  with  gold  ;  the  whole  interior  was  illuminated.  lu 
the  flower-beds  and  thickets  the  Indians  grouped  themselves  like 
flocks  of  orioles,  flamingos,  and  restless  ravens.  It  was  the  most 
picturesque  sight  I  ever  beheld." 

'"But  Caroline — Catharine  Montour — wha.t  of  her  ?"  exclaimed 
the  commissioner,  losing  his  self-control  ;  "  was  all  this  savage 
pomp  assembled  to  witness  the  sacrifice  of  that  noble  creature  ?" 

"Yes  ;  in  the  midst  of  it  all  she  stood,  white  as  death  and  firm 
as  stone,  her  hand  in  that  of  the  chief — a  fine,  noble  looking  fel 
low  he  was  too,  with  just  enough  of  white  blood  in  his  veins  to 
save  the  whole  thing  from  being  repulsive.  Indeed,  in  my  whole 
life,  I  have  seldom  seen  a  man  of  nobler  presence.  On  the  mo 
ther's  side,  you  are  already  informed,  he  was  nearly  white  ;  from 
her  he  had  learned  many  of  the  gentler  graces,  both  of  manner 
and  costume,  which  made  his  appearance  rather  picturesque  than 
savage.  Instead  of  a  blanket  or  skin-robe,  he  wore  a  hunting- 
shirt  of  some  rich  color,  heavy  with  fringes  and  embroidery  ;  his 
hair  was  long  to  the  shoulders,  black  and  glossy  as  a  crov/'s  wing. 
After  all,  a  woman  of  good  taste  might  have  been  excused  for 
admiring  the  fellow  for  his  own  sake." 

The  commissioner  writhed  in  silence  under  this  description  ; 
his  eyes  burned  with  deep  fire  ;  his  very  fingers  quivered  with 
suppressed  excitement. 

"  And  she  was  married  thus  ?"  he  questioned,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"  Yes,  it  was  done  bravely  before  the  whites  assembled  in  my 
father's  hall ;  before  the  Six  Nations,  swarming  upon  the  grounds. 
Her  lips  were  white  as  snow  when  the  vow  passed  them  ;  her 
eyes  burned  like  a  she  eagle's  when  her  young  is  threatened  ; 
she  clenched  the  chief's  hand  till  even  he  must  have  felt  the  pain. 
YeSj  it  was  bravely  done  ;  she  had  promised,  and  no  entreaty 
could  move  her  to  reconsider  the  matter.  Sir  William,  who  was 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  223 

not  much  given  to  sentiment,  besought  her  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  to  desist  ;  the  women  who  crowded  the  hall  wept  like  chil 
dren  ;  but  she  stood  firm  ;  I  can  almost  hear  her  deep,  ringing 
voice  now,  as  she  answered  the  priest." 

"  Then  it  was  a  marriage  by  the  priest !"  almost  shouted 
Butler,  dashing  the  handle  of  his  knife  down  on  the  table,  till 
the  plate  rang  again. 

"  She  hud  pledged  herself  to  become  the  chief's  wife,  and  was 
a  Christian — how  could  she  keep  her  vow,  except  by  Christian 
rites  !  She  had  honorably  fulfilled  her  conditions — she  as  honor 
ably  redeemed  her  promise." 

"What  were  those  conditions?"  inquired  the  commissioner, 
and  his  voice  became  lower  and  hoarser  each  moment. 

"  The  redemption  of  three  white  prisoners  from  torture." 

"  Three  prisoners — three  ?" 

*'  Yes,  a  gentleman,  his  wife,  and  child,  taken  on  the  Canada 
frontier." 

"  And  when  was  this  ?" 

Sir  John  mentioned  the  date  rather  carelessly  ;  he  was  pour 
ing  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  did  not  observe  the  wild  anxiety 
with  which  his  guest  awaited  this  answer. 

"  Oh,  my  God— my  God  !" 

His  arms  spread  themselves  on  the  table,  his  face  fell  between 
them,  while  a  terrible  burst  of  passion  shook  him  from  limb  to 
centre. 

"  Oh,  my  God— my  God  !" 

It  was  all  he  could  say  ;  the  words  were  suffocating  him  as 
they  rose. 

The  host  and  Butler  looked  at  each  other  in  silent  amazement. 
An  earthquake  could  not  have  surprised  them  more.  Even  But 
ler  was  awed  by  an  outbreak  of  feeling,  the  more  impressive 
because  of  the  apparent  composure  that  had  preceded  it. 

At  last  Murray  lifted  his  head  ;  every  feature  was  quivering 
with  emotion— joy,  regret,  sharp  pain,  and  wild  triumph,  strug 
gled  there. 


224:  MARY     DERWENT. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  it  was  I — it  was  my  wife  and  child 
whose  lives  Lady  Granby  bought  by  the  horrible  sacrifice.  Till 
to-night  I  was  ignorant  of  all  this — ignorant  that  she  yet  lived. 
You  will  not  wonder  that  I  am  unmanned." 

"  But  she  never  mentioned  your  name,  Mr.  Murray,"  said 
Sir  John. 

"  Perhaps  she  did  not  know.  She  might  have  do.ne  as  much 
for  strangers  even  ;  upon  the  broad  earth  there  does  not  exist  a 
woman  so  capable  of  great  sacrifices." 

Butler  laughed,  and  looked  meaningly  at  his  host. 

"  I  dare  say  it  was  no  great  sacrifice  after  all,"  he  said.  "  By 
Sir  John's  account,  the  Indian  was  as  handsome  as  a  young 
Apollo" 

"  Stop." 

The  word  flew  from  Murray's  lips  like  a  hot  bolt,  his  eyes 
flashed  fire. 

"  Another  word  against  that  lady,  here  or  elsewhere,  and  I 
will  hold  you  to  a  sharp  account,  young  man  !" 

Murray  passed  around  the  table  as  he  spoke,  laid  his  hand 
with  a  heavy  pressure  on  Butler's  shoulder,  and  bowing  to  Sir 
John,  passed  from  the  room  and  the  house.  Before  either  of  the 
gentlemen  left  behind  had  recovered  from  their  surprise,  the 
sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  galloping  down  the  hard  carriage  road 
warned  them  of  Murray's  abrupt  departure  from  the  Hall. 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,  this  is  high  tragedy  !"  exclaimed 
Butler,  recovering  from  his  stupor  of  cowardly  astonishment. 
"  What  the  deuce  did  I  say  that  need  have  aroused  a  tempest 
like  that  ?" 

11  Common  decency,  sir,"  said  Sir  John,  for  a  moment  yielding  to 
his  better  feelings,  "  should  have  prevented  your  expressing 
such  doubt  of  any  woman,  least  of  all,  of  one  who  is  the  mother 
of  your  wife." 

"  Well,  well,  let  it  rest — we  won't  quarrel.  I  have  no  reason 
to  think  hardly  of  the  Countess  of  Granby.  Kelations  should 
agree,"  he  continued,  uttering  the  name  with  pompous  pride, 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  225 

as  if  feeling  that  the  title  reflected  honor  upon  him.     Come,  Sir 
John,  let's  talk  seriously." 

"  Concerning  what,  sir  ?" 

"  This  fortune,  of  course — these  estates." 

"  I  can  give  you  no  farther  information,  Mr.  Butler  ;  any 
future  knowledge  that  you  may  desire  must  be  obtained  from 
Catharine  Montour  herself." 

Butler  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  muttered  oath,  then 
remembering  how  impolitic  a  quarrel  with  Sir  John  might  prove, 
he  drew  towards  the  table  again  and  smoothed  his  forehead,  en 
deavoring  to  fall  into  a  more  friendly  and  familiar  style  of  con 
versation,  an  effort  in  which  he  was  not  at  first  seconded  by  his 
companion. 

"  Well,  let  the  wigwam  rest  for  once  ;  we  have  talked  about 
these  things  long  enough,"  he  said,  with  a  great  effort,  wrench 
ing  his  thoughts  from  the  Granby  estates.  "  What  does  this 
crusty  Don  want  at  Johnson  Hall,  when  he  leaves  it  with  so  little 
ceremony  ?" 

"  Oh,"  answered  Sir  John,  firing  up,  and  draining  glass  after 
glass  of  wine  while  he  was  speaking  ;  "  he  is  a  sort  of  commis 
sioner  from  the  king,  sent  to  keep  us  all  in  order — our  mode  of 
warfare  does  not  suit  his  taste,  he  was  just  making  an  eloquent 
protest  against  bringing  Indians  into  the  service,  as  you  came  in." 

"  And  be  hanged  to  him  !"  cried  Butler,  filling  his  glass. 
"  Why,  we  might  as  well  strike  our  tents  at  once  ;  the  savages 
work  beautifully — besides  they  make  capital  scape-goats,  when 
we  wish  to  indulge  in  a  little  of  their  amusements  ;  upon  my 
word,  Johnson,  there's  a  sort  of  relish  in  their  way  of  scalping  and 
roasting  a  traitor  when  he  comes  in,  that  has  its  charm  ;  do 
away  with  the  savages  I  why,  that  would  be  throwing  aside 
buckler  and  cloak  too." 

"  I  told  him  so  plainly  enough,"  said  Sir  John,  whom  the 
wine  was  making  more  and  more  social.  "  Why,  Schuyler  him 
self,  could  not  have  preached  mercy  with  more  eloquence  ;  he  a 
king's  commissioner.  I  wish  the  Indians  had  roasted  him  when 

15 


226  MARY      DEKWENT. 

they  had  the  chance — to  come  here  lecturing  me,  a  Johnson,  of 
Johnson  Hall ;  as  if  I  had  not  been  outraged  and  insulted 
enough  by  General  Schuyler  and  his  minions,  at  Guy  Park." 

"  Is  it  true,  Sir  John,  that  Schuyler  forced  you  into  giving  up 
the  stores  and  ammunition  which  had  been  gathered  here  at  the 
Hall  ?"  v 

"  Forced  is  a  strong  word,  captain,"  answered  Sir  John,  turn 
ing  red  with  the  humiliating  remembrances  brought  up  by  the 
rough  question  ;  "  he  required  my  word  of  honor  not  to  act 
against  Congress,  and  demanded  the  arms,  stores,  and  accoutre 
ments  held  by  our  friends,  and  the  Indians.  I  refused  to  com 
ply,  and  he  marched  upon  the  Hall  ;  I  sent  for  our  Indian  allies, 
and  for  you.  My  messenger  found  Queen  Esther  almost  alone  in 
the  Seneca  Lake  encampment.  The  whole  tribe  were  gone  to 
hold  a  council-fire  in  Wyoming.  You  were  away,  no  one  could 
guess  where.  After  this  fashion,  Captain  Butler,  was  I  sustained 
by  my  friends." 

"  Faith,  I  had  no  idea  of  Schuyler's  movement  till  the  escort 
came  in  with  Catharine  Montour,  who  would  force  me  to  stay 
and  get  my  hands  tied  ;  but  the  very  day  after  our  wild  wedding, 
I  was  on  the  road,"  said  Butler. 

Sir  John  grew  more  and  more  excited. 

"  I  could  have  driven  the  traitors  back  with  my  brave  High 
landers,  without  going  beyond  the  estate,  for  he  started  with 
only  seven  hundred  men,  but  the  Try  on  county  militia  turned  out 
like  wasps,  and  increased  his  force  to  three  thousand  ;  with  no 
hopes  of  reinforcement  from  you  or  your  father,  my  Indian  allies 
absent,  and  no  time  for  preparation,  I  was  compelled  to  negoti 
ate,  and  to  a  certain  extent  succumb,  but  it  was  only  for  a  time  ; 
to-morrow  you  must  ride  over  to  Fonda  and  collect  our  forces. 
Brant  is  hard  at  work  among  the  Seuecas.  Where  have  you 
left  Gi-en-gwa-tah  with  his  warriors  ?" 

"  They  are  on  the  lake  by  this  time." 

"  That  is  good  news,  we  will  soon  have  them  at  work  ;  my 
tenants  are  all  under  arms  ;  I  expect  Brant  to  join  us  in  a  few 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  227 

days,  with  an  account  of  his  organization.  We  will  give  the 
rebels  a  hot  reception  the  next  time  they  venture  into  this 
county,  or" 

Sir  John  broke  off  with  a  quick  exclamation  ;  the  loud  gal 
lop  of  a  horse  approaching  the  house  brought  both  the  baronet 
and  his  guest  to  their  feet. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  said  Sir  John,  listening  ;  "  surely  not  the 
Hon.  Mr.  Murray  returning — no,  no,  he  would  keep  the  road  ; 
but  this  fellow  rides  over  everything.  Now  that  hoof  strikes  the 
turf,  now  the  gravel ;  it  can  be  no  good  tidings  that  bring  any 
one  here  in  such  hot  haste  at  this  hour  ?  I  must  learn  at  once 
what  it  means." 

He  rose  hurriedly  from  his  seat,  and  Butler  followed  ;  but  be 
fore  they  reached  the  door,  it  opened,  and  one  of  Sir  John's  slaves, 
a  faithful  and  confidential  old  servant,  entered  the  room,  evident 
ly  in  great  agitation  and  fear. 

"  What  is  it,  Pompey  ?"  Sir  John  asked. 

"  There  is  a  man  wants  to  speak  to  massar  right  off ;  some 
thing  very  'portant  :  them  consarned  Whigs  is  up  again." 

"  Call  him  in — be  quick,  Pomp  1"  exclaimed  Sir  John. 
"  What  can  these  traitors  be  at  now  ?"  he  continued,  as  the  ser 
vant  left  the  room  to  execute  his  order. 

"  I  thought  you  would  get  into  difficulty  with  them  about 
this  time,"  replied  Butler  ;  "  they  begin  to  suspect  that  you 
haven't  kept  that  extorted  promise  very  faithfully — your  High 
landers  have  come  out  too  boldly,  and  begun  to  worry  the  enemy 
— they  are  sure  of  re-enforcements." 

"  A  promise  made  to  a  set  of  traitors  !"  said  Sir  John,  scorn 
fully  ;  "  only  wait  till  the  time  comes  that  I  can  crush  them 
like  so  many  vipers,  miserable  rebels  1" 

Before  Butler  could  answer,  the  door  was  opened  again,  and 
Pompey  ushered  into  the  room  a  man  whose  disordered  garments 
betrayed  the  haste  in  which  he  had  arrived. 

"Your  errand  ?"  cried  Sir  John,  imperiously — "don't  waste 
words,  but  speak  out  1" 


228  MARY     DERWENT. 

"  The  rebel  Congress  has  taken  measures  against  you,"  re 
turned  the  man,  bluntly,  "  and  a  company  of  soldiers  are  on 
their  way  here  to  take  you  prisoner." 

"  This  does  look  like  earnest,"  said  Butler,  with  a  prolonged 
whistle  ;  "  what  is  the  cue  now,  Sir  John  ?" 

"  How  near  are  they  ?"  inquired  the  baronet. 

"  They  will  reach  here  in  an  hour,  at  the  farthest — you  have 
no  time  to  spare." 

"  An  hour — so,  so  I  We  shall  see — they  haven't  caught  the 
fox  yet  !  Where  is  Mr.  Murray,  Pomp  ?" 

"  Gone,  massar  ;  the  commissioner  rode  off  half  an  hour  ago  : 
said  he  wasn't  gwine  to  come  back." 

"  Confound  him  1"  muttered  Butler  ;  "  he'd  be  little  help,  I 
fancy.  What  shall  you  do,  Sir  John — no  chance  to  stand  a  fight  ?" 

"  Fight — no  !  Curse  them,  they  have  left  me  neither  arms 
nor  ammunition  ;  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  decamp  in  double 
quick  time,  and  take  our  revenge  after." 

"  Who  has  command  ?"  asked  Butler. 

"  Congress  ordered  General  Schuyler  to  take  measures,  and  he 
commissioned  Colonel  Dayton  with  the  command  of  the  expedi 
tion." 

"  Which  will  prove  a  fruitless  one,  unless  my  lucky  star  has 
deserted  me,"  said  the  baronet.  "  Here,  Pomp,  I  can  trust  you. 
Collect  all  the  plate,  and  put  it  in  the  iron  chest  that  stands  in 
my  office." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?"  inquired  Butler. 

"Bury  it  deep,  as  I  wish  these  infernal  rebels  were.  You 
don't  think  I  intend  to  leave  it  for  them,  do  you  ?  Be  alive, 
Pomp  ;  I'll  bring  you  the  papers  and  valuables  out  of  my  cham 
ber,  and  do  the  work  yourself  quietly,  without  saying  a  word  to 
any  one." 

"  Yes,  massar — trust  old  Pomp  for  that." 

"  I  know  I  can,  you  sooty  villain  ;  you  are  one  of  the  few 
men,  black  or  white,  in  whom  one  can  place  confidence." 

"Tank  yer,  masser,"  and  the  old  slave  grasped  his  hand 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  229 

with  fervor.  "  Now,  do  yer  get  off,  and  leave  me  to  manage 
eberyting  ;  dem  rebels  ain't  cute  enough  for  dis  yer  chile,  Fse 
willin'  to  bet,  ha,  ha  I" 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  Pomp — I  must  leave  you  behind. 
What's  that  now  ?"  he  cried,  breaking  off  hurriedly. 

"  Another  swift  rider,"  said  Butler.     "  Can  it  be  the  rebels  ?" 

"  Quick,  masser — don't  lose  a  minute  1" 

"  It  isn't  them,"  interrupted  the  messenger  ;  "  I  rode  like  the 
wind — they  cannot  have  so  nearly  overtaken  me." 

"  See  who  it  is,  Pomp — some  friend,  perhaps — if  it  only  proves 
so,  I  should  like  to  give  them  a  hot  welcome." 

"  Before  the  negro  could  obey,  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  a 
muscular,  powerful  man  strode  into  the  room. 

11  Brant  1"  exclaimed  both  gentlemen  at  once. 

"  Yes,  Brant,"  returned  the  man,  in  a  deep,  stern  voice.  "  Like 
a  fool,  I  left  the  Indians  to  follow  me,  or  we  would  give  the  ras 
cals  down  yonder  hot  work." 

"  Then  you  have  brought  me  no  help,  Colonel  ?" 

"  Not  fifty  men  ;  you  must  run  for  it  this  time." 

The  savage  uttered  the  words  in  a  tone  of  sullen  wrath 
which  betrayed  his  deep  hatred  of  the  Whigs.  His  hand 
clutched  unconsciously  over  the  hilt  of  his  knife,  and  a  terrible 
frown  settled  upon  the  heavy  darkness  of  his  forehead.  He  was 
a  picturesque  object  in  spite  of  the  evil  expression  of  his  features. 
Like  his  manner,  the  dress  that  he  wore  was  a  singular  ming 
ling  of  the  Indian  costume  and  the  attire  of  the  whites.  Under 
his  frock  of  deerskin  was  buttoned  a  military  vest,  doubtless 
the  spoil  taken  from  some  one  of  his  numerous  victims,  and  over 
his  shoulders  was  flung  an  Indian  blanket,  worn  with  the  grace 
of  a  regal  mantle.  His  long,  black  hair  fell  in  dull  masses  about 
his  neck,  and  from  under  his  shaggy  brows  blazed  his  unquiet 
eyes  with  a  deadly  fire  from  which  the  bravest  might  well  have 
recoiled. 

"  Do  you  go  with  me,  Brant  ?"  asked  Sir  John. 

"  Yes,  Brant  will  be  your  guide.    Queen  Esther  is  not  many 


230  MARY      DERWENT. 

miles  away  with  a  portion  of  her  tribe  ;  you  will  find  protection 
among  them." 

"  Is  Catharine  Montour  there  ?"  interrupted  Butler. 

"  No,  she  rests  at  Seneca  Lake  ;  the  young  woman  whom  you 
have  made  your  wife  is  with  her.  Sir  John,  you  have  no  time 
to  lose  in  useless  questions — is  all  ready  ?" 

"  In  one  moment.     Here,  Pomp,  come  to  my  chamber." 

They  went  out ;  and  in  a  few  moments  Sir  John  returned  pre 
pared  for  flight. 

"  Choose  your  best  horse,"  said  Brant  ;  "  we  must  take  to  the 
forest  at  once,  for  there  we  have  friends." 

They  followed  him  into  the  hall,  through  the  open  door  of 
which  were  visible  their  horses,  ready  for  a  start. 

"  Stop  !"  exclaimed  Brant,  "  I  must  leave  a  sign  behind." 

He  mounted  the  stairs,  and  brandishing  his  tomahawk,  began 
making  deep  gashes  in  the  balustrade,  at  a  distance  of  about  a 
foot  apart. 

"  What  the  deuce  are  you  about  ?"  exclaimed  the  men  in  as 
tonishment.  ;£•  . 

The  renegade  made  no  reply,  but  continued  his  work  to  the 
top  of  the  staircase. 

"  The  house  is  safe  now,"  he  said,  as  he  came  down  again. 
"  Should  it  be  attacked  by  the  Indians  during  your  absence,  they 
will  leave  it  uninjured." 

"  You  leave  a  stern  mark,  Colonel,"  said  Butler,  glancing  up 
at  the  hacked  wood. 

"  That  Brant  always  does — he  will  leave  a  more  lasting  one, 
though,  on  these  rebels,  before  long." 

The  party  hurried  into  the  open  air  and  mounted  their  horses, 
but  before  they  could  gallop  away,  Pompey  rushed  out  and 
grasped  his  master's  bridle. 

"  It's  all  safe,  Massy  John,"  he  whispered  ;  "  let  'em  come 
now  as  soon  as  they  like  ;  this  chile  has  matched  'em." 

"  That's  a  fine  fellow — hold  them  at  bay,  Pompey — I  shall  see 
you  again — keep  a  good  heart." 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  231 

"Good  by,  masser— come  back  'fore  long— old  Pompey'll 
keep  dem  ere  silver  platters,  and  milk  jugs,  and  all  de  cetras 
safe  as  de  dead  folks  in  em  graves — you  can  'pend  on  dat 
masser." 

"  Good  by,  Pomp — good  by  !" 

They  put  their  horses  into  a  gallop,  and  rode  away  through  the 
forest.  For  many  moments  no  one  spoke,  and  the  only  sound 
that  arose  was  the  smothered  beat  of  their  horses'  hoofs  on  the 
turf,  and  the  mournful  shiver  of  the  leaves,  as  the  wind  sighed 
through  them.  Brant  took  the  lead,  tracking  the  narrow  path 
as  unerringly  as  if  it  had  been  a  highway.  Suddenly  he  checked 
his  horse,  and  made  a  signal  to  his  companions  to  halt. 

"  The  rebels  are  coming,"  he  said  ;  "  they  have  got  on  our 
traces." 

They  listened  ;  the  heavy  tramp  of  steeds  came  up  from  the 
distance. 

"  They  will  overtake  us  1"  exclaimed  Sir  John  ;  "  what  are  we 
to  do,  Brant  ?" 

"Let  them  pass — we  will  baffle  them  yet — follow  me — we 
know  the  woods,  at  any  rate." 

He  turned  aside  from  the  path,  and  urged  his  horse  through 
the  underbrush,  followed  by  his  companions,  until  he  reached  a 
little  dell,  through  which  a  brook  crept  with  a  pleasant  gurgle. 

"  They  will  go  on,  and  so  miss  us,"  he  said,  reining  in  his 
horse.  "  If  we  had  only  our  guns  now  !" 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  tramp  of  the  horses — rushing 
past  the  dell  in  hot  pursuit,  and  growing  fainter  in  the  distance. 

"  They  have  gone  by,"  said  Butler.  "  Oh  for  a  good  rifle — 
I'd  have  one  shot  1" 

"  We  must  take  another  path,"  said  Brant ;  "  keep  a  tight 
rein,  gentlemen." 

While  he  was  glancing  around  in  the  starlit  gloom  for  some 
trace  to  guide  his  course,  there  came  up  a  sudden  cry  from  the 
depths  of  the  forest  ;  the  trees  were  illuminated  by  torches,  and 
in  an  instant  they  were  surrounded  by  their  pursuers. 


232  MAEY      DERWENT. 

"  This  way,"  shouted  Brant,  "  they  are  upon  us  !" 

He  urged  his  horse  through  the  woods,  closely  followed  by  his 
companions.  Butler  was  last ;  his  horse  slipped  in  ascending  the 
bank,  rolled  over,  carrying  his  rider  with  him.  The  rest  fled, 
ignorant  of  his  misfortune,  and  before  he  could  free  himself  from 
his  saddle  the  pursuers  had  surrounded  him. 

"  Is  it  the  baronet  ?"  asked  one. 

They  flashed  a  torch  in  his  face,  and  at  the  sight  of  those  fea 
tures  a  simultaneous  cry  went  up  : 

"  The  Tory  Butler  1     Tie  him  fast  !" 

Butler  struggled  and  attempted  to  draw  back  ;  he  was  speedily 
overpowered  by  numbers,  his  hands  tied,  and  himself  bound  upon 
a  horse.  After  a  brief  consultation,  they  resigned  the  pursuit 
of  Sir  John,  and  turned  to  retrace  their  steps,  with  the  prisoner 
in  their  midst. 

When  the  fugitives  drew  rein  to  breathe  their  horses,  they 
perceived  for  the  first  time  that  Walter  Butler  was  missing. 

"  They  have  caught  him  1"  exclaimed  Sir  John. 

"  Fool  I"  said  Brant,  contemptuously.  "  He  deserves  hanging, 
but  I  am  sorry  it  happened  ;  Queen  Esther  likes  him,  and  I 
would  rather  encounter  a  troop  of  fiends  than  her  tongue,  when 
she  learns  what  has  happened." 

"But  wo  are  not  to  blame — we  were  powerless  to  assist 
him,  and" 

"  As  if  that  would  change  her  mind  !  No,  no  ;  I  can  promise 
you  a  hot  welcome.  But  it  is  not  for  her  interest  to  risk  a  seri 
ous  quarrel  with  us,  and  her  majesty  looks  to  that,  I  can  tell 
you." 

They  rode  on  for  another  hour  in  security,  and  on  reaching  a 
break  in  the  forest,  the  camp-fires  of  the  Indians  became  visible 
in  the  valley  below. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Brant  ;  "  now  for  Queen  Esther." 

They  rode  into  the  camp,  and  Brant  was  received  by  the  sav 
ages  with  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"Where  is  the  queen  ?"  he  asked,  in  the  Shawnee  dialect. 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  233 

"  Yonder  is  her  tent — she  is  still  watching." 

"  Follow  me,  Johnson,"  said  Brant ;  "  we  must  pacify  the  old 
tigress  before  she  shows  her  teeth." 

"  But  I  am  not  in  fault." 

"  Make  her  believe  it  then  !" 

"  But  she  will  not  dare  " 

"  She  would  dare  everything  !  But  you  are  in  no  danger — 
only  be  ready  to  receive  every  sort  of  invective  that  a  woman's 
tongue  can  invent,  or  the  fury  of  a  she  panther  give  birth  to." 

They  moved  towards  the  tent;  Brant  seized  his  companion 
by  the  arm  and  drew  back,  for  that  moment  the  heavy  mat 
ting  which  fell  before  the  tent  was  flung  suddenly  aside,  and 
Queen  Esther  stood  before  them — not  fierce  and  wild  as  Sir  John 
had  expected  to  find  her,  but  with  the  sharp,  cool  look  of  a  per 
son  so  used  to  adventure,  that  nothing  could  surprise  her. 
Though  a  tall  woman,  she  was  scarcely  imposing  in  her  person, 
for  a  life  of  sharp  action  had  made  her  nerves  steel,  and  her 
muscles  iron  ;  of  flesh,  she  had  only  enough  to  bind  these  tough 
threads  of  vitality  together.  The  rest  was  all  intellect  and  stern 
passion. 

As  if  in  scorn  of  all  those  wild  or  gentle  vanities,  which  are 
beautiful  weaknesses  in  the  sex,  both  in  the  wigwam  and  draw 
ing-room,  Esther  allowed  no  bright  color  or  glittering  ornament 
to  soften  the  grey  of  a  stern  old  age,  which  hung  about  her  like 
a  garment;  her  doe-skin  robe,  soft,  pliant,  and  of  a  dull  buff  color, 
had  neither  embroidery  of  wampum  or  silk  ;  her  leggins  were 
fringed  with  chippped  leather  ;  and  over  her  shoulders  was  flung  a 
blanket  of  fine  silver-grey  cloth,  gathered  at  the  bosom  by  a 
small  stiletto,  with  a  handle  of  embossed  platina,  and  a  short, 
keen  blade,  that  glittered  like  the  tongue  of  a  viper,  and  worn 
as  a  Roman  woman  arranged  her  garments  in  the  time  of  the 
Ctesars.  Her  hair  was  white  as  snow,  silvery  as  moonlight,  and 
so  abundant,  even  at  eighty  years  of  age,  that  it  folded  around 
her  head  in  a  single  coil,  like  a  turban.  The  high,  narrow  fore 
head,  the  aquiline  nose,  curved  with  time  like  the  beak  of  an 


234:  MARY      DEE  WENT. 

eagle,  and  the  sharp,  restless  eyes,  stood  out  from  beneath  this 
woof  of  hair  stern  and  clear  as  if  chiselled  from  stone.  The  very 
presence  of  old  age  rendered  this  woman  majestic. 

She  paused  a  moment  in  the  entrance  of  her  tent ;  a  torch 
burnt  within,  sending  its  resinous  smoke  around  her,  as  she 
appeared  clearly  revealed,  with  a  back-ground  of  dull  crimson — 
for  the  tent  was  lined  with  cloth  of  this  warm  tint,  and  she  stood 
against  it,  like  a  grey  ghost  breaking  out  from  the  depths  of  a 
dusky  sunset. 

"  Are  you  friends  or  enemies  ?"  she  inquired,  shading  her  eyes 
from  the  smoky  torch-light  with  a  hand  that  looked  like  a  dead 
oak  leaf. 

"  Who  but  friends  would  dare  to  enter  Queen  Esther's  camp 
at  night  ?"  answered  Brant,  stepping  forward.  "  You  and  I  are 
on  the  same  hunt ;  our  war-paths  cross  each  other  here,  that  is 
all." 

"  Ha,  Colonel  Brant,  this  is  well  !  I  had  dispatched  a  swift 
runner  in  search  of  you.  Schuyler  has  sent  a  force  of  armed 
men  into  Tryon  County,  and  the  settlements  are  astir.  Gi-en- 
gwa-tah  was  away  when  the  news  came,  but  I  have  brought  his 
warriors  forward.  Our  spies  send  word  that  they  threaten  the 
master  of  Johnson  Hall." 

"He  is  here,"  said  Brant,  pointing  to  Sir  John  ;  " we  got 
news  of  Dayton's  approach  just  in  time  to  fly." 

"  In  time  to  fly  1  Were  there  no  armed  men  upon  the  estate, 
that  you  should  sneak  away  from  your  ancestral  hall  like  a  dog 
which  fears  the  lash  ?  This  was  not  the  way  that  your  father 
defended  himself,  young  man." 

"  There  were  but  three  of  us,  besides  the  servants,"  said  Brant, 
laying  his  hand  heavily  on  Sir  John's  arm,  to  prevent  the  sharp 
reply  which  sprang  to  the  baronet's  lips  ;  "  there  was  no  time 
to  summon  the  tenants  ;  even  your  new  grandson,  Walter  Butler, 
counselled  escape  to  the  forest,  where  we  can  organize  at  lei 
sure,  and  sweep  down  upon  the  rebels  when  they  least  expect 
us." 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     H  O  U  S  "5  .  235 

"  Walter  Butler — the  husband  of  my  grand-daughter — and  is 
he  with  you  ?" 

Esther  spoke  without  emphasis,  and  with  an  intonation  sharp  as 
the  ring  of  steel  ;  there  was  neither  softness,  auger,  nor  surprise 
in  that  voice.  She  turned  her  keen  glance  from  Brant  to  John 
son,  questioning  them  both. 

"  He  was  with  us  a  few  minutes  ago,"  answered  Sir  John, 
whose  indignation  was  aroused  by  this  cutting  composure,  "  but 
an  ambush  scattered  us  in  the  woods,  and  he  has  not  come  in 
yet." 

A  cold  glitter  shot  into  Queen  Esther's  eyes  ;  her  lips  sunk 
with  a  quick  pressure,  and  almost  lost  themselves  between  the 
contracted  nostrils  and  the  protruding  chin.  She  beckoned  to 
the  Indian  who  had  stood  sentinel  before  her  tent,  uttered  a  few 
words  of  his  own  language  in  a  whisper,  that  sounded  like  the 
suppressed  hiss  of  a  snake,  and,  with  a  slow  sweep  of  the  hand, 
passed  from  before  her  guests  suddenly  and  softly,  as  a  cloud 
precedes  the  tempest. 

"  A  cold  reception  this,"  said  Sir  John,  when  his  hostess  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  night.  "  Is  her  serene  highness  about  to 
grill  us  for  the  loss  of  her  cub  ?" 

"  From  her  quietness,  I  should  think  it  likely,"  said  Brant. 
"  When  her  majesty  grows  polite  and  silky,  it  is  a  sure  proof 
that  she  intends  to  strike.  Like  a  leopard,  she  never  shows  her 
nails  in  earnest  till  the  paw  falls.  She  is  a  wonderful  woman — 
the  only  person  in  all  the  Six  Nations  whose  influence  can  oppose 
mine  I" 

"  But  you  cannot  really  think  she  intends  us  any  harm,"  said 
Sir  John,  whose  bravery  was  not  always  bullet  proof. 

"  Don't  trust  her  1  If  she  finds  out,  or  fancies  that  we  have 
got  Butler  into  this  scrape,  she  will  make  smooth  work  of  it.  I 
have  seen  her  shave  off  a  head,  as  if  it  had  been  an  over-ripe 
thistle,  with  her  own  hand.  Her  tomahawk  is  sharp,  and  quick 
as  lightning.  It  is  the  only  thing  she  is  dainty  about  :  the  head 
is  burnished  with  gold,  and  the  ebony  handle,  worn  smooth  as 


236  MAKY      DE  It  WENT. 

glass,  is  richly  veined  with  coral  and  mother  of  pearl.  That 
which  other  women  lavish  on  their  persons,  she  exhausts  upon 
her  arms.  But  for  your  comfort,  Sir  John,  if  Queen  Esther  orna 
ments  them  like  a  woman,  she  wields  them  like  a  man.  No  war 
rior  of  her  tribe  strikes  so  sure  a  blow.'7 

"  But  she  will  not  dare  !" 

"  I  should  not  wonder  if  the  Earl  of  Essex  said  as  much  when 
he  lay  in  the  Tower  ;  but  his  faith  did  not  prevent  Elizabeth, 
whom  I  can't  help  thinking  a  good  deal  like  our  savage  queen 
here,  chopping  off  his  head." 

"But  you  are  powerful — more  powerful  among  the  savages 
than  she  can  be — and  I " 

"  Yes,  with  three  thousand  warriors  at  my  back  ;  but  just 
now  my  body-guard  is  scattered,  and  if  this  lady  tiger  chooses 
to  tie  us  up  to  the  next  tree,  and  give  her  people  a  human  bar- 
bacue,  I  could  only  fight  single-handed  like  yourself." 

"  Hark  !  they  are  gathering  now,"  said  Johnson,  turning  pale. 
"  How  quietly  she  does  her  work  !" 

Brant  listened,  and  cast  a  sharp  glance  around  the  encamp 
ment.  A  low,  humming  noise  came  from  its  outer  margin,  like 
that  of  a  hive  of  bees  swarming :  he  began  to  be  really 
alarmed. 

"  Surely  she  is  not  so  mad  1"  he  muttered,  grasping  the  handle 
of  his  tomahawk.  "  A  man  would  not  dare — but  this  creature 
has  enough  of  her  sex  to  be  uncertain,  if  nothing  more/' 

The  noise  that  had  startled  him,  instead  of  increasing,  died 
away.  He  looked  keenly  forward  :  a  train  of  human  beings 
swept  out  from  the  heart  of  the  camp,  headed  by  a  single  horse, 
whose  tramp  echoed  harshly  back  from  the  mellow  sound  of  a 
hundred  pair  of  retreating  moccasins. 

"  By  the  great  Medicine,  she  has  left  the  camp  1"  almost 
shouted  Brant.  "  I  tell  you,  Sir  John,  that  woman  would 
shame  the  bravest  officer  in  your  king's  army." 

As  he  spoke,  a  savage  came  forward,  and  addressed  Brant 
A  tent  had  been  pitched  near  that  of  Queen  Esther,  and  she  had 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  237 

politely  left  an  invitation  that  he  and  the  baronet  would  take 
possession  of  it,  and  rest  after  their  joarney. 

" This  does  not  look  like  auto-da-fe" said  Sir  John,  preparing 
to  accept  the  invitation. 

"  The  more  for  this  politeness,"  was  the  answer,  "  as  I  told 
you.  Queen  Esther  carries  the  etiquette  of  her  father's  court 
even  into  her  son's  camp.  The  daughter  of  a  French  governor, 
the  widow  and  mother  of  savages,  is  always  courteously  cruel. 
We  shall  see  what  all  this  means  when  she  returns." 

"  Why  wait  for  that  ?  supposing  we  take  to  the  woods  again. 
My  cousin  Guy  must  be  in  force  somewhere  in  the  district  ;  I 
have  no  fancy  for  hospitality  like  this." 

"  Take  to  the  woods  1"  cried  Brant,  with  a  scornful  laugh — • 
"  what — run  from  a  woman  ?  Not  I  ;  besides,  Sir  John,  just 
look  at  this  fellow — with  all  his  sullen  civility,  he  is  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  a  guard  set  to  watch  us.  So  make  the  best  on't  ;  till 
the  fate  of  that  scoundrel  Butler  is  ascertained,  we  are  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  prisoners." 

"  But  what  if  the  rebels  have  killed  him  ?" 

"  No  danger,"  cried  Brant,  with  a  scornful  lift  of  the  shoulder 
which  made  all  the  fringes  on  his  hunting-shirt  rattle  again  ; 
"  the  fellow  wasn't  born  to  be  killed  in  honest  battle  ;  he'll  turn 
up  somewhere,  depend  on't.  So,  as  the  tent  is  ready,  and  our  guard 
of  honor  set,  let's  take  a  little  rest  while  the  old  silver-headed 
dame  settles  our  fate." 

Brant  strode  off  to  the  tent  as  he  spoke,  followed  by  Sir  John, 
who  was  not  a  little  crest-fallen  and  apprehensive.  Up  to  this 
time  he  had  met  the  Indians  as  a  monarch  musters  his  vassals,  on 
the  steps  of  his  father's  hall,  with  wealth,  power,  and  a  vast  ten 
antry  to  back  him.  Now  he  was  a  fugitive,  separated  from  his 
followers,  in  the  hands  of  a  woman  exasperated  by  the  loss 
of  her  favorite,  and  evidently  filled  with  scorn  of  his  cowardly 
desertion  both  of  the  home  of  his  ancestors,  and  the  companion 
of  his  flight.  It  was  an  unpleasant  position,  and  one  which 
Brant  maliciously  rendered  more  distressing  by  his  cool  review 


238  MARY     DEKWENT. 

of  the  dangers  that  surrounded  them.  The  crafty  and  brave  In 
dian  gloated  over  the  cowardly  fears  of  his  companion,  for  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart  he  both  hated  and  despised  his  white  allies. 
It  was  his  happiness  to  torment  them  whenever  the  opportunity 
arose.  Though  a  willing  tool  in  their  hands,  he  was  not  a  blind 
one. 

Meantime  Queen  Esther  swept  on  with  her  train  of  warriors 
into  the  forest.  A  savage  ran  before  her  horse,  searching  out 
the  trail  with  his  keen  eyes.  He  was  one  of  the  Indians  that  had 
followed  Brant  from  the  Hall.  As  she  rode  along,  Queen  Esther 
questioned  this  man  in  a  cautious  voice  till  she  had  gathered  all 
the  information  he  possessed. 

"  So  you  took  shelter  in  the  deep  cut,  and  he  was  lost  ?  Wheel 
to  the  left  ;  there  is  a  shorter  cut — they  will  return  to  the 
Hall.  On  !" 

Quick  and  sinuous  as  a  serpent  might  alter  his  course,  the 
train  of  savages  swept  on  one  side,  and  darted  off  in  a  run,  fol 
lowing  their  stern  leader.  For  a  full  hour  they  kept  forward, 
steady,  silent,  and  swift,  threading  the  wilderness  as  a  flash  of 
lightning  cuts  through  a  storm  cloud. 

"  Hist  1" 

It  was  the  Indian  scout  who  came  running  back  with  one  hand 
uplifted. 

"  Hist — hist  1"  The  word  ran  like  a  serpent's  hiss  through 
the  whole  train,  and  every  moccasin  rested  in  its  track. 

Queen  Esther  dismounted,  and  a  savage  tied  her  horse  to  a 
tree.  Again  that  low  hiss  ran  through  the  line,  and  it  swept  for 
ward.  Scarcely  a  branch  swayed,  scarcely  a  stick  of  bushwood 
crackled  :  the  wind  sighing  in  the  tree-tops  made  a  louder  noise 
than  all  that  band  of  fierce  human  beings. 

Crash,  tramp,  crash — the  sound  which  the  scout  had  detected 
came  sharp  and  clear  now.  Hoofs  beat  the  turf,  oaths  rang  on 
the  air.  The  rush  of  a  quick  progress  swept  back  louder  and 
louder.  In  the  oath,  Queen  Esther  detected  the  voice  of 
Butler. 


THE     OLD     JOHNSON     HOUSE.  239 

"  Ha  !"  she  said,  sharply,  "  he  is  alive.  Faster,  faster  ;  but 
more  silently.  Are  your  rifles  ready  ?" 

She  was  answered  by  the  sharp  click  of  flints.  Again  that 
silent  sweep  of  human  beings.  They  moved  more  boldly  now, 
for  the  close  beat  of  hoofs  bore  down  the  faint  noise  of  their 
moccasins. 

Again  Esther  whispered  the  word  of  command.  The  caval 
cade  were  in  sight.  One  horseman,  carrying  a  lantern  on  his 
saddle  bow,  revealed  the  rest.  With  a  sudden  manoeuvre  a  de 
tachment  of  savages,  headed  by  Queen  Esther,  threw  themselves 
in  front  of  the  party.  Quick  as  thought,  the  rest  fell  into  place, 
surrounding  the  enemy  with  a  triple  hedge  of  men — a  wall  of 
rifles  bristled  around  the  doomed  group. 

The  leader  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  reined  back  his  horse. 
The  motion  exposed  his  left  side  ;  crack  !  a  bullet  passed  through 
him.  The  horse  reared,  plunged,  and  fell  dead,  striking  against 
his  nearest  companion.  Before  the  revolutionists  could  reach 
their  holsters,  it  was  too  late.  Some  turned  to  fly,  but  the  flash 
of  muskets,  shedding  lurid  fire  among  the  green  leaves,  met  them 
everywhere.  A  few  broke  the  lines,  and  rushed  away,  wounded 
and  bleeding.  Three  or  four  escaped  unhurt,  and  fled  like  mad 
men  into  the  deep  forest.  Queen  Esther  took  no  prisoners,  but 
shot  down  her  enemies  in  their  track.  Shrieks  of  pain  and  sharp 
cries  of  defiance  answered  to  the  storm  of  her  bullets.  Her 
blood  rose,  the  fiery  serpent  in  that  woman's  heart  crested  itself. 
She  shrieked  to  her  followers,  urging  them  on,  and  flinging  her 
scalping  knife  into  the  melee,  called  aloud  for  trophies. 

Stern  and  terrible  was  that  conflict,  the  more  terrible  because 
it  occupied  but  a  few  minutes.  The  candle  that  burned  in  that 
lantern  where  it  had  dropped,  was  not  the  fraction  of  an  inch 
shorter,  and  yet  more  than  twenty  souls  had  been  torn  out  of 
life  in  that  brief  time. 

"  Now,"  cried  Queen  Esther,  cutting  the  thongs  that  bound 
Butler's  wrists,  and  sheathing  her  red  scalping-knife,  "  catch  their 


240  MARY     DEKWENT. 

horses,  mount  and  follow  me  to  the  camp.  Some  few  stay  be 
hind,  and  kill  those  who  are  not  quite  dead.  Remember,  every 
rebel's  scalp  is  worth  a  piece  of  silver  and  a  bottle  of  fire-water 
—on  I" 

She  took  the  stilletto  from  her  bosom,  pricked  her  black  steed 
on  the  shoulder,  and  was  carried  away,  with  Butler  by  her  side, 
sweeping  that  train  of  red  warriors  like  a  whirlwind  through  the 
darkness. 

A  few  hours  after,  they  came  thundering  into  the  camp; 
Queen  Esther  dismounted,  without  a  flush  on  her  cheek  or  a 
quickened  breath  to  tell  of  the  fearful  work  she  had  done.  Just 
as  gravely  and  coldly  as  she  had  left  the  camp,  she  preceded 
Butler  to  the  tent  provided  for  her  guests.  Brant  stood  in  the 
entrance  with  exultation  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  expected  as  much,"  he  said.  "  In  the  whole  Six  Tribes, 
there  is  no  warrior  like  Queen  Esther.  You  see,  Sir  John,  our 
heads  are  safe;  the  victorious  are  always  generous.  Well, 
Butler,  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  again  to-night." 

"  And  so  left  me  to  be  rescued  by  a  woman.  I  thank  you," 
said  Butler,  sullenly. 

Brant's  massive  features  broke  into  a  smile. 

"Tush,"  he  said;  "a  man  who  suffers  himself  to  be  taken 
prisoner  by  a  handful  of  rebels  deserves  no  better.  I  am  not 
leagued  with  your  white  troopers  to  pick  up  the  fools  that  drop 
off  in  a  skirmish ;  men  who  surrender  without  even  a  blow  of  the 
fist  should  be  left  to  the  women." 

"Take  care!"  answered  Butler,  fiercely,  "you  hajre  indulged 
in  these  taunts  more  than  is  wholesome  for  you.  At  any  rate, 
you  are  not  hired  to  insult  the  king's  officers." 

"  Hired  !"  said  Brant;  "hired  !" 

"Yes,  hired;  do  your  people  bring  in  a  scalp  which  is  not 
paid  for  in  so  much  gold  or  silver.  It  is  a  better  business  than 
trapping  mink,  and  so  you  take  it." 

Not  another  word  passed  between  those  two  men,  but  their 


THE     LAKE     BY     STARLIGHT.  241 

fierce  eyes  met  as  Butler  turned  upon  his  heel  and  left  the  tent, 
and  that  glance  told  of  the  mortal  enmity  which  must  thence 
forth  exist  between  them.  Still  they  slept  under  the  same 
blanket  for  an  hour  or  two  before  the  day  broke  that  morning. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THE     LAKE     BY     STARLIGHT. 

A  THOUSAND  stars  shone  upon  Seneca  Lake;  clear  stars  that 
smiled  goldenly  alike  on  scenes  of  strife,  such  as  we  have  left,  and 
pictures  of  thrifty  peace,  to  which  we  now  turn. 

On  the  shore  lay  Catharinestown,  the  Shawn ee  village,  one  of 
the  most  lovely  spots  in  the  world.  All  the  land  between  the 
shore  and  that  charming  cluster  of  lodges  was  richly  cultivated; 
fruit  trees  stood  thick  where  the  hemlocks  and  oaks  had  fallen. 
If  a  grove  or  thicket  was  left  here  and  there,  it  was  the  result 
of  Catharine  Montour's  fine  taste,  for  her  gold  had  served  to 
turn  the  wilderness  on  that  lone  shore  into  a  paradise,  and  her 
own  poetic  spirit  had  shed  beauty  on  everything  she  touched. 
Thus  grape  arbors  screened  the  humbler  lodges,  and  bowers  of 
peach  trees  drooped  over  the  unseemly  wigwams.  What  Sir 
William  Johnson  had  done  for  his  estate  in  the  Mohawk  valley, 
Catharine  Montour,  in  less  time,  and  with  better  taste,  had 
accomplished  at  the  head  of  Seneca  Lake. 

If  she  had  achieved  nothing  more  than  this  advance  in  civiliza 
tion,  the  life  of  that  unhappy  woman  had  not  been  utterly 
thrown  away  since  she  came  to  the  wilderness.  With  her  bene 
volence,  her  gold,  and  those  wonderful  powers  of  persuasion, 
with  which  no  woman  was  ever  more  richly  endowed,  she  had 
softened  many  a  savage  heart,  and  won  many  a  rough  acre  of 
forest  into  smiling  culture.  The  large  stone  mansion  which 

16 


24:2  MAKY     DEKWENT. 

Queen  Esther  haughtily  denominated  her  palace,  was  by  far  the 
most  imposing  building  in  the  settlement.  But  nearer  the  brink 
of  the  lake,  and  sheltered  by  a  grove  of  sugar  maples,  was  a 
smaller  lodge  of  hewn  logs,  on  a  foundation  of  stone,  with  a 
peaked  roof  and  deep  windows,  neatly  shingled  and  glazed. 
The  walls  were  covered  on  one  end  by  a  massive  trumpet  vine, 
that  crept  half  over  the  roof,  where  its  burning  flowers  lay  in 
great  clusters  through  all  the  late  summer  weeks.  Wild  honey 
suckles,  sweetbrier,  and  forest  ivy  crept  over  the  front,  and  a 
majestic  tulip  tree  sheltered  it  with  a  wealth  of  great  golden 
blossoms  when  these  were  out  of  flower.  Thus,  with  the  rude 
logs  clothed  with  foliage,  the  windows  brilliant  with  pure  glass, 
and  no  uncouth  feature  visible,  Catharine  Montour's  residence 
was  far  more  beautiful  than  that  of  her  fiercer  mother-in-law,  and 
a  stranger  might  well  have  marvelled  to  see  anything  so  tasteful 
in  the  neighborhood  of  an  Indian  settlement. 

From  this  dwelling,  Catharine  Montour  and  her  daughter 
looked  out  upon  the  lake  on  that  star-lit  night.  Queen  Esther 
and  the  chief  had  each  gone  forth  with  a  detachment  of  warriors 
to  their  separate  war-paths.  Thus,  but  few  of  the  tribe  remained 
at  home,  and  these  were  under  Catharine's  direct  control,  for  the 
younger  brother  of  Gi-en-gwa-tah  had  accompanied  the  chief, 
and  no  meaner  authority  was  acknowledged  in  the  tribe. 

It  was  a  pleasant  scene  upon  which  Catharine  gazed.  A 
hundred  canoes,  each  with  a  burning  torch  at  its  prow,  lay,  as  it 
were,  sleeping  upon  the  waters.  At  her  command,  the  warriors 
left  behind  by  her  mother-in-law  and  husband  had  gone  out  to 
spear  salmon,  and  she  was  watching  the  picturesque  effect  of  the 
canoes  on  the  water,  with  a  gentle  thrill  of  admiration  of  which 
her  heart  had  been  incapable  a  few  moths  before.  Tahmeroo 
was  at  her  feet,  resting  against  her  lap,  and  looking — oh,  how 
wistfully! — far  beyond  the  group  of  canoes  with  their  flaming 
lights,  that  fell  like  meteors  on  the  waters.  Her  heart,  poor 
girl,  was  full  of  wild  longings  and  those  vague  fears  which 
always  follow  want  of  trust  in  a  beloved  object. 


THE     LAKE     BY     STARLIGHT.  24:3 

They  had  been  silent  a  long  time;  one  watching  the  fishers, 
the  other  looking  far  beyond  them  into  the  still  night. 

"Mother!" 

Catharine  Montour  started,  and  withdrawing  her  eyes  from 
the  lake,  looked  with  a  kindly  glance  into  the  earnest  face  lifted 
to  hers. 

"  Well,  my  child  ?" 

"Is  it  possible — oh,  tell  me,  mother — mightn't  he  come  to 
night  ?" 

"My  poor  child!" 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  poor  child,  mother,  and  with  that  voice 
too  ?  Is  it  because  you  fear  that  he  will  not  come  ?" 

"  Not  that,  Tahmeroo.  I  dare  say  he  will  be  here  before 
long;  for  your  sake,  I  hope  so." 

"  And  only  for  my  sake,  mother;  is  there  no  love  in  your 
heart  for  my  husband  ?" 

"  I  love  you,  child,"  said  Catharine,  with  tender  caresses. 

"  And  not  him!  Oh,  mother,  try  and  love  him  a  little,  if  it 
is  only  for  my  sake." 

"  Be  content;  I  shall  give  him  all  the  love  he  merits,  and 
more  for  your  dear  sake." 

"It  is  a  long,  long  time  since  he  went  away  from  Wyoming. 
We  have  been  here  one  entire  week  ;  indeed,  it  seems  like  years. 
Johnson  Hall  is  not  so  far  away  that  he  cannot  come  back  any 
time  now — is  it,  mother  ?" 

"  No,  my  child,  he  might  have  been  here  to-night.  But  your 
father  left  us  soon  after  he  did,  and  has  not  yet  been  heard  of." 

"  Has  he  been  gone  so  long  ?  I  did  not  know  it,"  said  Tah 
meroo,  innocently. 

Catharine  sighed  :  had  she,  too,  become  of  so  little  account 
with  her  child. 

"  The  chief  has  gone  through  a,  part  of  the  country  thick 
with  enemies,"  she  said,  probing  that  young  heart  with  jealous 
affection. 

"  But  he  is  wise  and  brave,"  answered  Tahmeroo,  proudly. 


244  MART     DEEWENT. 

"  The  very  glance  of  our  chiefs  eyes  would  send  an  enemy  from 
his  path." 

"  But  there  is  war  on  every  side  now.  It  may  be  a  long,  long 
time  before  he  comes  back  to  the  lake." 

"  Oh  no;  when  Walter  comes,  he  will  send  all  our  warriors  to 
help  the  great  chief." 

Again  Catharine  sighed.  It  was  hard  to  see  the  very  soul 
of  her  child  carried  off  by  that  bad  man.  Tahmeroo  did  not 
heed  the  sigh,  but  started  up  suddenly,  catching  her  breath  with 
a  throb  of  keen  delight. 

"  Look,  mother,  look  away,  away  off  where  the  shadows  are 
thick.  The  stars  cannot  strike  there,  and  yet  I  see  light — one, 
two,  three,  a  hundred — the  black  waters  are  paved  with  them — 
oh,  mother,  he  is  coming." 

"  You  forget,"  said  Catharine,  straining  her  eyes  to  discover 
the  lights  which  Tahmeroo  saw  at  once  with  the  quick  intelli 
gence  of  love.  "  It  may  only  be  Queen  Esther  returning  with 
her  detachment  of  warriors — heaven  forbid  that  she  has  found 
an  enemy." 

"  No,  mother,  no.  I  am  sure  those  torches  are  lighting  him 
home.  Let  us  meet  him.  The  stars  are  out,  and  all  the  lake  is 
light  with  our  salmon  fishers.  It  is  warm  and  close  here — my 
canoe  lies  among  the  rushes — come,  mother,  come,  I  will  carry 
you  across  the  lake  like  a  bird." 

Catharine  arose  with  a  faint  smile  and  followed  her  daughter 
to  the  shore. 

With  eager  haste,  Tahmeroo  unmoored  her  little  craft,  and 
rowing  round  a  sedgy  point,  took  her  mother  in.  The  salmon 
fishers  lay  in  a  little  fleet  a  few  rods  off,  reddening  the  waves  with 
their  torches.  At  another  time  Catharine  would  have  paused  to 
rock  awhile  on  the  waters,  and  watch  the  Indians  at  their  pictu 
resque  work,  as  she  had  done  a  hundred  times  before  ;  but 
Tahmeroo  was  full  of  loving  impetuosity  ;  she  cut  through  the 
crimson  waters — saw  spear  after  spear  plunged  into  their  depths, 
and  the  beautiful  fish  flash  upward  and  descend  into  the  canoes 


THE     LAKE     BY     STARLIGHT.  245 

without  notice.  How  could  such  scenes  interest  her  when  the 
distant  shores  were  lighted  by  his  presence.  Away  she  sped, 
turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  but  on  and  on,  cleaving  the 
silver  waters  like  an  arrow,  and  wondering  why  the  distance 
seemed  so  much  greater  than  it  ever  was  before. 

At  last  a  fleet  of  canoes  came  rounding  a  point — cast  a  ruddy 
light  over  the  forest  trees  that  fringed  it  in  passing,  and  floated 
out  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  lake.  In  the  foremost  canoe  sat 
a  young  man  with  his  hat  off,  and  the  night  winds  softly  lifting 
his  hair. 

"It  is  he  !  oh,  mother,  it  is  he  I"  said  Tahmeroo.  All  at 
once  her  strength  forsook  her — the  oars  hung  idly  in  her  hands, 
and  her  face  fell  forward  upon  her  bosom.  She  remembered 
how  coldly  Butler  had  parted  from  her,  and  became  shy  as  a 
fawn.  Like  a  bird  checked  upon  the  wing,  her  canoe  paused  an 
instant  on  the  waves,  then  turned  upon  its  track,  and  fled  away 
from  the  very  man  its  mistress  had  sought  in  such  breathless 
haste. 

But  she  had  been  recognized.  A  shout  followed  her  retreat ; 
two  canoes  shot  from  the  rest,  and  pursued  her  like  a  brace  of 
arrows. 

"  Tahmeroo  !  Tahmeroo  1" 

It  was  his  voice — he  was  glad  to  see  her  ;  never  had  so  much 
cordial  joy  greeted  her  before.  She  dropped  the  oars,  crept  to 
her  mother's  bosom,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears — oh,  such 
happy,  happy  tears  !  that  moment  was  worth  a  life-time  to  her.  A 
canoe  darted  up.  The  Indian  girl  felt  herself  lifted  from  the 
arms  of  her  mother  and  pressed  to  her  husband's  bosom. 

As  Catherine  relinquished  her  child,  a  hand  clutched  the  other 
side  of  her  canoe,  and  turning  quickly,  she  saw  Gi-en-gwa-tah 
stooping  toward  her,  while  the  cold  grey  face  of  Queen  Esther 
peered  upon  her  from  behind.  Catharine  was  chilled  through 
by  that  face,  and  cowered  down  in  the  boat,  afraid  almost  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life — and  why  ?  The  Indian  chief  was 
grave  and  kind  as  ever  ;  as  for  the  old  queen,  she  was  smiling. 


24-6  MAEY      DEEWENT. 

Butler  and  Sir  John  Johnson  went  to  Catharine's  lodge,  while 
Esther  marched  up  to  the  settlement  at  the  head  of  her  war 
riors. 

In  the  interior  of  her  house  Catharine  had  gathered  so  many 
beautiful  objects  which  appertained  to  her  civilized  life,  that  it 
appeared  more  like  the  boudoir  of  some  European  palace  than 
a  lodge  in  the  backwoods  of  America  ;  books,  pictures,  and 
even  some  small  specimens  of  statuary  stood  around  ;  draperies 
of  rich  silk  flowed  over  the  windows;  and  while  his  tribe  main 
tained  most  of  their  savage  customs,  no  prince  ever  dined  on 
more  costly  plate  and  china  than  did  the  Shawnee  chief  when  he 
made  Catharine's  lodge  his  home. 

With  her  face  all  aglow  with  happiness,  Tahmeroo  hurried 
back  and  forth  in  the  room  where  her  mother  sat  with  her 
guests,  preparing  the  evening  meal  with  her  own  hands,  for 
Catharine  seldom  allowed  any  personal  service  that  was  not 
rendered  by  her  daughter  ;  it  was  the  one  thing  in  which  her 
affection  had  ever  been  exacting. 

Tahmeroo  loved  the  gentle  task  which  affection  imposed  on 
her.  With  lips  smiling  and  red  as  the  strawberries  heaped  in 
the  crystal  vase  she  carried,  the  young  girl  brought  in  the  luscious 
fruits  and  cream,  glancing  timidly  from  under  her  black  lashes  to 
see  if  Butler  was  regarding  her.  He  looked  on,  well  pleased. 
How  could  he  help  it  ?  Bad  as  he  was,  the  wild  grace  of  that 
young  creature  would  make  itself  felt  even  in  his  hard  heart. 
And  Tahmeroo  was  happy.  She  did  not  dream,  poor  child,  that 
a  new  power  had  been  added  to  her  attractions  since  Butler  had 
learned  that  she  was  heiress  to  a  title  and  the  vast  wealth  he 
could  never  hope  to  touch,  except  through  her.  Three  weeks 
before,  the  selfish  man  would  have  laughed  at  the  idea  of  a  wild, 
bright  girl  like  that  breaking  her  heart  from  his  indifference  ; 
now  her  life  was  very  precious  to  him,  and  there  was  no  degree 
of  affectionate  regard  which  he  would  not  have  feigned,  rather 
than  see  her  cheek  grow  a  shade  paler. 

Catharine  saw  this,  and  her  heart  rose  against  the  man  whom 


THE     LAKE     BY      STARLIGHT. 


she  was  forced  to  acknowledge  as  her  son  ;  but  Tahmeroo  was 
satisfied.  Of  the  inheritance  that  might  sometime  be  hers,  she 
knew  nothing,  and  cared  less  ;  her  husband's  love  was  all  the 
treasure  she  coveted  on  earth. 

Butler  saw  Catharine's  eyes  following  him,  and  struck  with  a 
malicious  desire  to  retaliate  on  her,  broke  out  just  as  they  were 
all  seated  at  table,  with  a  rude  allusion  to  the  English  commis 
sioner  who  had  visited  Johnson  Hall,  on  the  evening  before  its 
master  was  driven  away. 

"  Oh,  dear  lady,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  he  said  ;  "  Sir  John  had 
the  honor  of  entertaining  an  old  friend  of  yours  the  day  before 
he  left  the  Hall  ;  a  person  who  knew  you  well  in  England,  he 
said  ;  and  who  professes  that  it  was  to  purchase  his  life  you 
married  the  chief  here." 

"  Captain  Butler,"  exclaimed  Sir  John,  with  sharp  indignation  ; 
"  by  what  right  do  you  repeat  conversation  heard  at  my  table  ?" 

"  Hallo,  have  I  been  blundering,  and  told  tales  in  the  wrong 
presence  ?  I  am  sure  Murray  spoke  of  the  whole  thing  openly 
enough." 

A  low  cry  broke  from  Catharine  ;  but  one,  for  she  seemed 
frozen  into  stone  by  that  name.  Every  feature  was  hushed  and 
cold  ;  her  very  hands  looked  hard  and  chiselled,  like  marble. 

The  chief  glanced  at  her,  a  slow  fire  rose  and  burned  in  his 
eyes.  His  savage  heart  was  stung  with  memories  to  which  those 
few  cruel  words  had  given  a  bitter  interpretation.  No  king 
upon  his  throne  was  ever  prouder  than  that  stern  chief. 

"  Surely,  that  stately  old  potentate  was  not  a  former  lover," 
said  Butler,  glorying  in  her  anguish  ;  and  urged  on,  both 
by  malice  and  self-interest,  to  wound  that  proud  spirit  in  every 
possible  way  ;  but  his  coarseness  overshot  its  mark  —  Catharine 
arose,  bent  her  head  in  calm  courtesy,  and  saying,  in  a  low,  sad 
voice, 

"  I  cannot  forget  that  you  are  my  daughter's  husband,"  moved 
quietly  out  of  the  room. 

The  chief  arose  also  and  left  the  house.     He  wandered  in  the 


248  MAKY      DERWENT. 

woods  all  night,  while  she  lay  fainting  and  still  as  marble  ou  her 
chamber  floor  ;  but  the  bolt  was  shot,  and  no  one  ever  knew 
how  terrible  was  the  anguish  of  that  night. 

The  next  day  Catharine  and  the  chief  recognized  each  other 
as  ever.  But,  alas  !  in  their  souls  they  never  met  again. 

For  weeks  and  months  after  this,  Butler  made  his  home  in  the 
Shawnee  camp,  till  at  last  the  war  raged  too  hotly,  and  he  went 
once  more  to  his  murderous  work. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

WALTER    BUTLER'S    CAPTURE. 

IN  a  lonely,  deserted  spot,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  little  village 
called  the  German  Flats,  stood  a  dreary  looking  board  house, 
inhabited  by  a  man  named  Shoemaker,  who  enjoyed  the  un 
enviable  reputation  of  being  a  Tory  in  disguise. 

One  evening  in  the  early  part  of  the  month  of  August,  in 
1777,  this  man  and  his  family  were  gathered  about  their  supper- 
table,  in  one  of  the  lower  rooms  of  the  house.  The  heat  of  the 
weather  precluded  the  idea  of  fire,  but  after  the  fashion  of 
many  farmers  of  that  period,  the  hearth  was  filled  with  blazing 
knots  of  pitch-pine,  which  served  to  illuminate  the  apartment  in 
place  of  candles.  The  evening  meal  of  samp  and  milk  was  just 
concluded,  and  they  were  moving  back  from  the  table,  when  a 
cautious  knock  sounded  at  a  door  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 

Seated  at  the  table  with  the  family,  was  a  workman,  a  staunch 
Whig,  who  had  for  some  time  watched  his  employer  with 
vigilance,  and  the  slightest  occurrence  of  an  unusual  nature  was 
enough  to  rouse  his  suspicions. 

He  saw  Shoemaker  start  when  the  knock  was  repeated,  and 
rising  hastily,  offered  to  open  the  door. 


WALTER  BUTLER'S  CAPTURE.    249 

"  Keep  your  seat/'  exclaimed  the  farmer  ;  "I  open  my  own 
doors,  and  don't  thank  any  man  to  be  putting  on  airs,  as  if  he 
was  the  owner." 

"  Some  neighbor,  I  dare  say,"  suggested  the  wife,  as  her  hus 
band  walked  towards  the  door  in  answer  to  a  third  signal. 

"  They're  mighty  afeard  of  coming  in,"  muttered  the  Whig  ; 
moving  restlessly  in  his  chair. 

"  Manners  is  manners,"  retorted  the  old  lady,  sententiously. 
"  You  don't  expect  strangers  to  pull  the  string  without  knock 
ing  ;  if  you  do,  I  don't." 

As  she  spoke,  the  farmer  opened  the  door  ;  a  few  whispered 
words  passed  between  him  and  some  one  outside  ;  but  instead 
of  ushering  the  visitor  into  the  house,  he  stepped  out  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  Before  those  within  could  express  their 
surprise,  except  by  looks,  Shoemaker  returned,  slamming  the  door, 
and  saying  with  a  rough  laugh — 

"  Who  do  you  think  it  was,  but  that  tarnal  Jim  Davis,  come 
up  here,  thinking  to  find  Betsey  Willets  that  he  was  sparking 
last  winter.  That  are  was  the  rap  he  used  to  give  by  way  of 
sign,  to  call  her  out.  I  told  him  she  wasn't  here  now,  and  sent 
him  off  about  his  business." 

If  Shoemaker  thought  by  this  to  quiet  his  suspicious  friend — 
he  had  only  awakened  a  new  uneasiness,  for  during  several  months 
back,  Master  Sim  had  regarded  the  aforesaid  Betsey  with  wist 
ful  appreciation. 

"  Consarn  the  fellow's  impudence  !"  he  exclaimed,  springing  to 
his  feet ;  "  if  I  don't  larn  him  better  manners  than  to  be  knock 
ing  after  gals  that  like  his  room  better'n  his  company,  my  name 
isn't  Sim  White." 

He  made  a  stride  towards  the  door,  with  the  look  of  a  man 
quite  ready  to  extinguish  the  claims  of  half  a  dozen  rivals  ;  but 
the  farmer  caught  his  arm. 

"  Jest  set  down  and  mind  your  business — I'll  have  no  muss 
about  my  house — set  down,  I  say." 

"  Wai,"  muttered  Sim,  sinking  slowly  into  his  chair  again,  and 


250  MARY      DEKWENT. 

ejecting  bis  tobacco  with  great  violence  among  the  blazing  pine 
knots,  "  only  wait  till  I  meet  him  with  that  new  Sunday  coat  of 
his  on — ef  I  don't  embroider  it  off  for  him  in  fine  style,  I  miss 
my  calculation — that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool  !"  expostulated  Shoemaker  ;  "  never  quarrel 
about  a  gal — you  don't  know  where  you'll  find  yourself.  I  wish 
you'd  go  down  to  the  tavern  for  me,  and  ask  Jacob  Harney  to 
come  up  here  to-morrow  ;  if  he  wants  that  grey  mare  of  mine, 
he's  got  to  take  her  now." 

"  It's  getting  late,"  suggested  Sim. 

"You  can  stay  all  night,  and  come  back  in  the  morning. 
Consarn  me,  if  I  don't  believe  the  fellow's  afeard  of  meeting  Jim 
Davis." 

Sim  disdained  to  reply  either  to  this  taunt  or  the  housewife's 
laughter  ;  but  planting  his  old  straw  hat  firmly  on  his  head,  was 
going  out  of  the  back  door. 

"  That's  a  new  fit  of  yourn,"  called  out  the  farmer  ;  "  don't 
you  know  that  t'other  door  leads  to  the  road,  you  blockhead 
you  !" 

Sim  turned  back  without  a  word,  and  passed  out  of  the  door 
Shoemaker  had  named  ;  but  once  in  the  road,  he  stopped  and 
looked  back  at  the  house. 

"  There's  something  wrong,"  he  muttered.  "  Old  Ike  Shoe 
maker,  you  aint  cute  enough  yet  for  this  chap,  by  a  long  shot. 
I'm  bound  to  see  what's  going  on  here  ;  that  wan't  Jim  Davis, 
no  how  ;  the  darned  old  Tory  has  got  some  mischief  afloat,  and 
I'm  a-goin'  to  find  it  out." 

He  turned  and  hastened  down  the  road,  for  at  that  moment 
the  door  opened,  and  the  farmer's  wife  appeared,  looking  eagerly 
around,  evidently  to  discover  if  he  were  lingering  about  the  house. 
Sim  walked  quickly  on,  and  waited  till  everything  should  once 
more  be  restored  to  tranquillity  before  he  ventured  to  return  and 
verify  his  suspicions. 

As  soon  as  they  believed  him  gone,  Shoemaker  opened  the 
back  door  and  gave  a  low  whistle.  Instantly  a  number  of  men 


251 

started  up  in  the  gloom  and  filed  into  the  stoop,  moving  very 
cautiously.  Shoemaker  grasped  the  hand  of  their  leader,  and 
drew  him  into  the  room.  When  the  flame  of  the  pine  knots  fell 
upon  his  face,  it  exposed  the  features  of  Walter  Butler. 

"  What  on  earth,  captain  I"  exclaimed  Shoemaker,  looking 
out  in  astonishment  at  the  group  of  men. 

"  I  will  explain  all  to  you,"  returned  Butler  ;  "  but  first,  you 
must  find  some  place  for  my  men — we  are  too  many  to  stay  in 
this  open  room — we  want  some  supper,  too." 

"  Up  this  way,"  said  Shoemaker,  opening  a  door  that  exhibited 
a  stairway  leading  to  an  upper  story.  "  Light  a  dip,  Sally — I'll 
take  'em  up  ;  they'll  be  safe  there,  and  the  old  woman  will  find 
'em  some  supper,  I  guess." 

Butler  made  a  signal,  and  a  band  of  twenty-eight  men,  four 
teen  whites,  and  fourteen  savages,  with  arms  concealed  under 
their  blankets  and  outer  garments,  entered  the  room,  and  passed 
almost  noiselessly  up  the  staircase. 

As  they  mounted  the  stairs,  unremarked  by  any  of  the  occu 
pants  of  the  room  a  human  face  appeared  at  the  window  and 
looked  cautiously  through  a  gap  in  the  curtain,  watching  every 
movement  with  keen  vigilance. 

When  the  farmer  had  seen  the  men  safely  stowed  in  the  loft, 
he  closed  the  door  behind  them  and  returned  to  the  room,  where 
Walter  Butler  had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair,  like  one  wearied 
by  a  long  march. 

"Why,  captain,  who'd  a  thought  of  seeing  you  here,"  said 
Shoemaker,  taking  a  seat  near  him,  and  lighting  his  pipe,  with 
all  the  phlegm  of  his  Dutch  ancestors.  "  You  oughtn't  to  come 
on  a  fellow  so  sudden  ;  you  might  have  been-  ketched  as  easy  as 
not,  if  I  hadn't  had  the  gumption  to  get  rid  of  a  fellow  who  was 
here." 

"  Well,  we're  safe  now,  at  all  events,"  said  Butler,  carelessly  ; 
"  there's  nothing  to  be  gained,  if  we  don't  dare  all ;  my  men  and 
I  have  been  in  greater  peril  than  this  during  the  last  few  days, 
I  can  tell  'you,  Shoemaker." 


252  MARY      DERWENT. 

"  Why,  where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"  From  Seneca  Lake,  where  the  Shawnees  have  made  their 
head-quarters  most  of  the  time  for  the  last  year.  The  old  queen 
don't  lead  off  as  she  used  to,  but  she's  out  again  now." 

"But  what  brings  you  to  this  place — what  on  earth  do  you 
expect  to  do  here  ?" 

"  Give  us  some  supper  before  you  ask  me  to  open  my  mouth  ; 
I  am  fairly  worn  out." 

"  Hurry  up,  old  woman  I"  said  Shoemaker.  "  While  she's  about 
it,  captain,  here's  what'll  set  you  all  right,"  he  continued, 
producing  from  a  cupboard  a  bottle  of  rum  and  a  couple  of  tin  cups. 

Butler  poured  out  a  quantity  of  the  spirits,  and  drank  it  off  at 
a  swallow. 

"  That  has  the  right  flavor,"  he  said,  wiping  his  lips  ;  "  we 
haven't  had  a  drop  since  yesterday." 

In  the  meantime,  the  farmer's  wife  had  been  busy  frying  a 
large  platter  of  ham  and  pork,  and,  assisted  by  her  daughter, 
began  spreading  a  homespun  cloth  upon  the  table,  to  prepare 
Butler's  meal.  A  liberal  portion  of  this  savory  food  was  carried 
to  the  men  above  stairs  ;  and  when  all  was  ready,  Butler  seated 
himself  before  the  table,  with  the  keen  appetite  of  a  man  who 
had  not  tasted  food  for  twelve  hours. 

"  Fall  to,  captain,"  said  Shoemaker,  pushing  the  bread  and 
butter  within  his  reach  ;  "  the  victuals  arn't  handsome  much, 
but  I  guess  you'll  find  'em  good,  especially  after  a  long  fast." 

Butler's  appetite  proved  that  hunger  had  given  a  keen  relish 
to  the  humble  fare,  and  the  farmer  smoked  his  pipe  in  silence, 
until  his  guest  pushed  back  his  plate,  and  filled  his  glass  again 
from  the  bottle  of  spirits. 

All  this  while,  the  face  at  the  window  was  intently  regarding 
them.  Picking  loose  the  putty  from  one  of  the  window  panes  with 
his  fingers,  Sim  took  the  glass  softly  out,  as  the  old  woman  and 
girl  prepared  to  leave  the  room,  and  the  two  men  drew  close 
together,  and  began  their  conversation.  Thus,  with  his  ear 
close  to  the  opening,  he  listened  to  all  that  passed. 


WALTER  BUTLER'S  CAPTURE.    253 

"  So  you  can't  understand  what  brings  me  here,"  Butler  said, 
sipping  his  rum.  "  You  see  I've  doffed  my  regimentals,"  he  add 
ed,  pointing  to  the  hunter's  frock  which  he  wore,  "  and  am  ready 
for  any  kind  of  work." 

"  I  wouldn't  a'  known  you,  I  do  believe,  cap  tin.  Well,  fine 
feathers  do  make  fine  birds,  and  no  mistake.  You  look  like  one 
of  us  now." 

"  Wesson  is  in  command  of  Fort  Dayton,  isn't  he  ?"  Butler 
asked. 

"Yes,  and  keeping  a  sharp  look-out.  You  don't  mean  to 
attack  him,  do  you  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  before  morning  I  intend  to  sack  old  Davis's  house 
— he's  got  some  papers  of  Sir  John  Johnson's  that  we  must  have, 
and  we  may  as  well  take  his  useless  life  along  with  them." 

"  Wai,  I  guess  the  neighborhood  can  spare  him,';  said  the 
farmer,  indifferently.  "  He's  one  of  the  worst  rebels  in  the  dis 
trict.  Jest  set  fire  to  his  haystacks  while  you're  about  it — I'd 
like  to  see  'em  burn." 

"  His  house  isn't  near  the  fort,  is  it  ?" 

"  No  ;  it's  on  the  other  road,  and  stands  as  much  alone  as 
mine  does  ;  you  won't  have  any  difficulty  about  settling  his 
hash." 

"  I'll  have  the  papers,  if  I  murder  and  burn  the  whole  settle 
ment  I"  exclaimed  Butler,  with  an  oath. 

"  Wai,  they'd  do  the  same  by  you  if  they  ketched  you.  It  isn't 
a  week  since  I  heard  old  Davis  himself  say,  he'd  hang  you  if  ever 
he  laid  hands  on  you." 

"Let  him  look  to  himself!"  muttered  Butler,  all  the  fero 
city  of  his  nature  breaking  forth  in  his  glance.  "  My  men 
shall  tie  him  hand  and  foot,  and  burn  him  in  his  own  house." 

"  When  will  you  start  ?" 

"  About  midnight.  By  that  time  the  whole  neighborhood  will 
be  quiet,  and  my  men  refreshed — we've  had  a  long  march, 
and  they  are  tired  enough,  but  always  ready  for  this  kind  of 
work." 


254:  MARY      D  K  R  W  E  N  T  . 

"  There's  no  trouble  about  it,"  said  Shoemaker  ;  "  we'll  make 
it  as  merry  as  a  wedding." 

The  face  which  had  long  watched  them  disappeared  from  the 
window,  and  the  fugitive  fled  lightly  down  the  road  towards  the 
fort. 

"  Will  you,  indeed  ?"  muttered  Sim  White,  as  his  long  legs 
measured  off  the  ground  at  a  tremendous  pace.  "  We'll  see  about 
that  1  I've  got  you  this  time,  you  old  Tory  ;  I  haven't  watched 
you  two  months  for  nothing  !  Old  Davis,  indeed  I  and  to  think 
I  wanted  to  lick  Jim — only  jest  wait  a  little  I" 

The  two  men  continued  their  conversation  in  fancied  security. 
At  length  Butler  flung  himself  upon  a  rude  settle,  with  his  Indian 
blanket  under  his  head  for  a  pillow,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  slum 
ber.  The  farmer  remained  in  his  chair,  but  after  a  time  his  head 
fell  forwards,  the  pipe  dropped  from  his  fingers,  and  he  also  sank 
into  a  quiet  sleep. 

Sim  White  made  no  pause  for  breath  until  he  reached  the  lit 
tle  block-house  which  was  dignified  by  the  name  of  fort.  His 
violent  knocking  speedily  aroused  the  sentinels,  and  the  door  was 
cautiously  opened. 

"  A  pooty  set  of  fellers,"  exclaimed  Sim,  as  he  rushed  in  pant 
ing  and  exhausted,  "  to  be  snoozing  here,  while  all  our  lives  are 
in  danger  !  Call  up  Colonel  Wesson  !" 

"What  is  it,  Sim  ?"  echoed  a  dozen  voices. 

"  The  Tories  and  Injuns  are  at  us,  that's  all !"  returned  Sim. 
"  Call  the  colonel,  you  darned  blunderheads  !" 

"  Here  I  am  1"  exclaimed  a  manly  voice,  and  the  commander 
appeared  from  the  inner  room.  "  What  has  happened  ?" 

Sim  explained  in  a  few  energetic  words  the  scene  that  he  had 
witnessed,  and  the  projected  attack  upon  Davis's  house. 

"  You  haint  got  no  time  to  lose,"  continued  Sim.  "  There's 
twenty-eight  of  'em,  Injuns  and  Tories,  and  that  Walter  Butler 
at  their  head,  and  old  Ike  Shoemaker  is  as  bad  as  any,  cuss  him  ! 
Only  let  me  get  my  gripe  on  him  !  Only  to  think  that  I've  lived  in 
his  house  a'most  a  year,  and  he  a  flat-footed  Tory  all  the  time  !" 


WALTER    BUTLER'S    CAPTURE.          255 

Colonel  Wesson  quickly  arranged  the  plan  of  action,  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  men  he  selected  were  in  marching  order. 

"All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  surround  the  house,"  said  Sim. 
"  The  men  are  up  in  the  loft,  and  there's  no  winder  for  'em  to 
fire  out  of.  We'll  have  them  like  so  many  rats  in  a  ha,y stack." 

"  Come  on,  men,"  said  the  colonel.  "  Sim,  do  you  go  with 
us?" 

"  Go  with  you  ?  Wai  now,  that's  a  pooty  question,  ain't  it  ? 
When  did  you  ever  know  Sim  White  to  shrink  out  off  a  fight 
with  the  bloody  Tories  ?  Give  me  a  pitchfork,  or  a  scythe,  or 
anything  that  comes  handy.  I'll  stick  'em,  or  mow  off  their  heads 
to  the  tune  of  Yankee  Doodle.  Go  with  you  ?  I  wonder  what 
you  mean  by  that !" 

"  We'll  look  you  up  a  gun,  Sim,"  said  the  colonel,  laughing  ; 
"  you'll  find  that  more  useful." 

"  I  ain't  no  ways  perticler  about  the  weapon,"  replied  Sim  ; 
"  all  I  ask  is  a  shy  at  old  Ike.  Ef  I  don't  stuff  his  pipe  down 
his  piratical  old  throat,  I  hope  I  may  have  to  sarve  crazy 
George  to  the  end  of  my  days,  that's  all  !" 

"  Shed  as  little  blood  as  possible,  men,"  said  Colonel  Wesson  ; 
"  and  by  all  means,  take  Walter  Butler  alive." 

"  Yes  sir,"  said  Sim  ;  "  there's  an  old  rope  in  Shoemaker's  barn 
that  they  tie  the  kicking  heifer  with — the  noose  in  it  '11  fit  that 
feller's  neck  to  a  T." 

"  We  are  all  ready,"  said  the  colonel.  "  File  out,  men — steady 
and  quiet.  Forward,  march  !" 

Walter  Butler  still  slept  upon  the  wooden  settle,  moving  rest 
lessly  in  his  slumbers,  and  uttering  broken  exclamations  which 
betrayed  how  even  his  dreams  took  a  share  in  the  cruel  and 
bloody  projects  he  had  formed.  The  farmer  dozed  quietly  upon 
the  hearth,  the  pine  knots  had  burned  almost  to  ashes,  and  the 
kitchen  was  wrapped  in  gloom,  save  when  the  dying  embers 
crackled  and  sent  up  a  lurid  flame  for  an  instant,  only  to  die  out 
and  leave  the  gloom  and  stillness  deeper  than  before. 

Up  the  road  came  that  little  band  of  faithful  Whigs,  in  stem 


256  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

and  silent  indignation  against  the  men  who  had  so  often  laid 
waste  their  peaceful  homes,  and  scattered  ruin  and  desolation 
wherever  they  passed. 

The  troops  surrounded  the  house  with  noiseless  caution,  but 
still  there  was  no  sound  within.  The  door  had  been  left  unfast 
ened  in  their  secure  carelessness,  and  yielded  without  an  effort 
to  the  assailants'  touch. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tread  of  heavy  feet — the  room  was 
bright  with  the  glare  of  torches,  and  Walter  Butler  sprang  to 
his  feet  from  a  troubled  dream,  to  find  himself  in  the  sure  grasp 
of  the  men  he  had  so  often  persecuted. 

"  The  rebels  are  on  us  1"  he  shouted.     "  Here  men,  men  !" 

This  cry  was  echoed  by  a  war  whoop  from  the  Indians  above, 
but  as  the  foremost  of  his  men  burst  upon  them,  he  fell  dead, 
pierced  by  a  bullet  from  one  of  the  Whigs.  Another  and  another 
shared  the  same  fate,  and  the  savages  and  Tories  retreated  in 
confusion  to  their  place  of  concealment. 

Walter  Butler  struggled  with  the  desperate  energy  of  a  man 
fighting  for  his  life  ;  striking  aimlessly  with  his  hunting-knife,  but 
he  was  speedily  overpowered  and  thrown  upon  the  floor. 

Shoemaker,  as  soon  as  he  could  collect  his  wits,  had  sought 
refuge  in  the  pantry,  but  Sim  White  speedily  discovered  his  hid 
ing  place,  and  dragged  him  back  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  fell 
upon  his  knees,  writhing  and  supplicating  in  abject  fear. 

"  I'm  not  to  blame — I'm  an  innocent  man  1"  he  cried.  "  Don't 
kill  me,  don't  kill  me,  Sim  White  ;  it's  agin  nature  that  you 
should  kill  a  man  you've  sat  at  table  with." 

"  Shut  up  I"  said  Sim,  giving  him  a  vigorous  shake  ;  "  nobody 
wants  yer  cussed  old  life,  you  ain't  worth  killin'  1" 

Butler  shouted  again  to  his  men  with  loud  curses  ;  once 
more  they  essayed  to  force  a  passage  into  the  room,  but  the 
foremost  fell  under  the  unerring  aim  of  the  Whigs,  and  they 
retreated  again.  Before  the  Whigs  discovered  it,  they  had  found 
means  of  egress  through  the  only  window  the  loft  contained,  and 
escaped,  leaving  their  leader  behind. 


WALTER  SUTLER'S  CAPTURE.    257 

11  Cowards  1"  cried  Butler  writhing  himself  free  from  the  grasp 
of  his  captors  and  seeking  to  draw  his  pistols,  "  I'll  sell  my  life 
dearly  any  way  I" 

Again  he  was  overpowered,  flung  upon  the  settle,  and  tied 
securely  hand  and  foot,  so  that  he  could  only  vent  his  rage  in 
impotent  blasphemies. 

Sim  stood  guard  over  the  farmer,  who  besought  him  in  vain 
to  be  released. 

"Only  let  me  go,  Sim,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole.  I  will,  sartin 
as  you  live." 

"  As  ef  I  didn't  know  the  hull — didn't  I  hear  every  word  you 
said  !  Jim  Davis,  indeed,  you  pesky  varmint.  Shut  up,  not  a 
word  out  of  yer  Tory  head  1" 

"  Just  let  Jim  Davis  lay  his  hands  on  you,  that's  all  !"  added 
another  ;  "  he'll  settle  your  affair  sudden,  now  I  tell  you." 

Walter  Butler  lay  writhing  in  ineffectual  efforts  to  free  him 
self  ;  his  struggles  attracted  Sim's  attention. 

"  Somebody  hold  the  old  chap  a  minute,"  he  said  ;  "  while  I 
get  the  halter  for  the  captain,  the  noose  'ill  fit  his  neck  as  well 
as  any  other  wild  colt's." 

Colonel  Wesson  checked  them  in  their  project. 

"  He  is  here  taken  on  our  ground — a  spy,  and  worse  than  a  spy. 
Mr.  Butler  must  be  brought  before  a  court-martial,"  he  said  ;  "  we 
will  give  him  a  fair  trial.  You  have  no  right  to  commit  murder." 

"  Who  wants  to  commit  murder  1"  said  Sim.  "  I  only  meant 
to  noose  him,  that's  all.  Here,  old  shaking  bones,  stand  up  and 
have  your  hands  tied — come  along." 

"  Oh,  don't  1  don't !"  shrieked  the  trembling  coward.  "  Let 
me  go — I've  got  a  wife  and  child  I" 

At  this  moment  the  mother  and  daughter  rushed  into  the 
room,  where  they  had  remained  concealed  quaking  with  fear,  and 
besought  Colonel  Wesson  to  spare  his  life. 

"  We  shall  not  harm  him,"  replied  the  soldier  ;  "  but  he  must 
go  with  us  ;  his  fate  is  in  the  hands  of  others." 

"  They'll  hang  me  !  They'll  hang  me  1"  groaned  the  farmer. 

11 


258  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  Of  course  they  will,"  said  Sim,  consolingly  ;  "  but  it's  quick 
over  !  Set  fire  to  old  Davis's  hay-stacks,  will  you,  you  pesky  old 
weasel !'' 

Conducting  their  prisoners,  the  party  returned  to  the  block 
house,  where  a  court-martial  was  speedily  formed  to  decide  upon 
the  fate  of  Walter  Butler. 

He  listened  in  sullen  silence  to  the  arguments,  smiling  fero 
ciously  when  different  acts  of  his  cruelty  were  cited,  and  exhibit 
ing  a  callous  unconcern,  which  was  the  effect  of  desperation 
rather  than  manly  courage. 

He  was  sentenced  to  be  hung  as  a  spy  at  day-light,  and  when 
the  court-martial  broke  up,  was  placed  in  rigid  confinement  dur 
ing  the  few  hours  which  must  elapse  before  his  death.  After  his 
removal,  Colonel  Wesson  debated  the  validity  of  their  sentence, 
and  deemed  it  more  prudent  to  grant  the  prisoner  a  reprieve, 
and  have  him  removed  to  Albany,  where  the  Commander-in-chief 
might  control  his  fate.  This  was  received  with  disfavor  by  the 
Whigs,  but  Wesson's  arguments  finally  prevailed,  and  it  was 
decided  that  instead  of  meeting  his  sentence  at  day-break,  he 
should  be  conveyed  at  once,  under  a  strong  guard,  to  Albany. 

The  old  Tory,  Shoemaker,  was  condemned  to  receive  a  score 
of  lashes,  and  left  to  return  home.  Sim  listened  to  the  sentence 
with  the  utmost  glee,  and  made  strange  confusion  amid  the 
solemnity  of  the  scene,  by  offering  to  apply  the  lashes  with  his 
own  hand. 

When  morning  dawned,  Walter  Butler  was  sent  forth  from 
the  settlement  a  prisoner.  For  once  his  cruel  schemes  had  failed  ; 
and  as  he  possessed  only  the  courage  of  a  weak,  wicked  man,  he 
looked  forward,  with  inward  trembling,  to  the  doom  that  awaited 
him. 

For  a  year  he  pined  in  the  close  confinement  of  a  jail ;  at  the 
expiration  of  that  time  he  was  reported  ill,  and  through  the 
intercession  of  his  father's  friends  among  the  patriots,  he  was 
still  closely  watched,  but  allowed  more  liberty  of  action,  and 
surrounded  by  the  comforts  and  luxuries  which  his  sensuous 


THE    WIFE'S    STRUGGLE.  259 

nature  found  so  essential,  in  spite  of  the  training  and  capability 
for  enduring  hardships,  which  a  long  residence  in  the  backwoods 
had  given  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE     WIFE'S     STRUGGLE. 

MANY  months  had  elapsed  since  Walter  Butler's  capture,  and 
no  tidings  of  him  had  reached  his  young  Indian  wife,  left  mourning 
in  her  home  on  the  borders  of  Seneca  Lake. 

Catharine  Montour  believed  that  he  had  deserted  her  child,  for 
she  knew  him  to  be  a  man  capable  of  any  deed,  however  des 
picable,  and  though  her  heart  was  wrung  with  anguish  by  the 
sight  of  Tahmeroo's  suffering,  she  could  not  regret  his  absence, 
feeling  that  the  misery  of  desertion  was  nothing  compared  to 
that  which  the  poor  girl  might  have  been  forced  to  endure  from 
his  indifference  and  cruelty. 

Queen  Esther  had  exhibited  no  astonishment  at  Butler's  ab 
sence,  but  in  truth  her  lion-like  heart  was  stirred  by  many  con 
flicting  emotions,  all  over-powered  by  a  strong  desire  to 
avenge  the  slight  which  he  had  dared  to  put  upon  her  grand 
child.  So,  amid  them  all,  Tahmeroo  found  little  comfort,  and 
wore  away  the  time  as  best  she  might,  concealing  her  sorrow  with 
all  the  fortitude  of  her  savage  nature,  though  her  altered  face 
and  wasted  form  betrayed  the  grief  preying  within. 

At  length  her  father  returned  from  the  war-path,  and,  after 
much  persuasion,  consented  to  go  forth  and  seek  for  tidings  of 
the  absent  husband.  Even  his  stern  nature  was  moved  by  his 
daughter's  suffering,  and,  collecting  a  band  of  his  warriors,  he  set 
forth,  promising  ere  long  to  return  with  tidings  which  should 
relieve  the  girl's  wretchedness. 


260  MARY     DERWENT. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  absence  Tahmeroo  went  up  to  the 
great  stone  house  where  Queen  Esther  dwelt  in  almost  regal 
state.  The  old  woman  was  absent,  and  Tahmeroo  sat  down  in  a 
deserted  apartment  to  await  her  return.  She  crouched  upon  a 
low  stool  in  a  darkened  corner,  not  weeping,  but  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  bearing  her  suffering  with  the  silent  endurance 
natural  to  her  Indian  blood.  She  could  not  believe  that  Butler 
had  deserted  her,  and  still  confident  of  his  love,  could  she  but 
discover  his  residence,  would  gladly  have  crept  to  him  with  the 
affection  which  nothing  could  shake,  and  besought  him  to  return. 
That  strong  love  had  completely  subdued  the  passionate  pride  of 
her  nature  and,  rather  than  be  parted  from  him,  she  would  have 
sold  herself  a  slave  in  his  behalf,  asking  only  the  sunshine  of 
his  presence  and  the  glory  of  his  love.  That  wild  devotion  had 
so  mingled  itself  with  the  religious  creed  her  mother  had  taught 
the  girl  that  it  became  a  part  of  her  religion,  and  only  death 
could  have  torn  it  from  her  heart. 

There  she  sat  in  the  gloomy  chamber,  motionless  as  a  figure 
carved  from  stone,  her  rich  garments  falling  over  her  bosom  in 
stirless  folds,  as  if  no  pulse  beat  beneath.  A  touch  aroused  her, 
she  sprang  to  her  feet  arid  glared  around  with  her  feverish  eyes, 
thinking  that  it  might  be  her  father  who  had  returned,  but  when 
she  met  her  grand-dame's  steely  glance  she  fell  back  to  her  seat 
in  the  apathy  of  deeper  despair. 

Queen  Esther  had  entered  the  room  with  her  usual  panther- 
like  movement  and  approached  her  unheeded.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  regarding  her  in  silence,  her  withered  hand  still  resting 
upon  the  girl's  shoulder.  If  any  feeling  of  sympathy  stirred  in 
that  stony  bosom  her  hardened  features  were  incapable  of  ex 
pressing  it,  and  her  cold  eyes  looked  down  upon  the  unhappy  girl 
in  unmoved  sternness. 

"Arise,  Tahmeroo,"  she  said  at  length,  in  her  clear,  metallic 
voice  ;  "a  chief's  daughter  should  not  crouch  down  and  weep 
like  a  puny  pale-face.  Wrestle  with  your  sorrow,  and  if  you 
cannot  cure  it,  tear  the  heart  from  your  bosom." 


THE     WIFE'S      STRUGGLE.  261 

"  I  am  not  weeping,"  replied  the  girl,  sullenly  ;  "  Tahrneroo  has 
no  tears,  and  she  is  not  afraid  to  meet  her  grief — is  not  Queen 
Esther's  blood  in  her  veins  ?" 

"  Brave  girl !  Wait — wait — we  will  lie  in  ambush  for  our 
prey,  and  when  we  catch  him,  Esther's  knife  shall  avenge  her 
grandchild's  wrongs." 

"  No,  no  !"  shrieked  the  affrighted  creature,  grasping  the  old 
woman's  uplifted  arm  ;  "  you  will  not  harm  him,  promise  me  that 
you  will  not — have  mercy  1" 

"  Did  Esther  ever  fail  to  avenge  a  wrong  ?  Does  Tahmeroo 
think  the  old  queen  in  her  dotage  that  she  talks  to  her  of  mercy  ? 
To  an  insult  there  is  but  one  answer — a  bullet,  flames,  or  the 
knife  !" 

"  Then  I  swear  by  the  Great  Spirit  that  you  shall  kill  me  too; 
the  knife  that  drinks  his  blood  shall  be  sheathed  in  mine  ;  then 
let  Queen  Esther  carry  it  next  her  bosom,  if  she  will.'7 

Her  form  was  thrown  back  in  wild  energy,  all  the  fire  and 
beauty  returned  to  her  face,  before  so  pale  and  spiritless. 
The  woman  looked  at  her  with  exultation  which  she  seldom 
exhibited. 

"  The  blood  of  the  Shawnee  chief  is  hot  in  his  daughter's 
bosom,"  she  said,  proudly.  "  Let  Tahmeroo  have'  patience,  the 
white  brave  may  yet  return;  he  is  no  traitor,  and  he  loves  our 
wandering  life  ;  he  hates  the  rebels,  too,  and  in  his  cabin  hang 
many  war  scalps,  with  pale  hair  streaming  from  them."  Tah 
meroo  heard  only  a  portion  of  these  words  and  her  heart  clung 
to  that  cold  assurance  as  if  it  had  been  a  prophecy. 

"  He  will  return  I"  she  exclaimed;  "  I  know  he  will  return — 
perhaps  he  may  come  back  with  the  chief ;  he  has  been  delayed 
by  sickness,  or  " 

"Death!"  said  Esther. 

The  word  fell  like  a  blow  on  the  heart  of  her  listener. 

"No,  he  is  not  dead,"  she  sobbed.  "Tahmeroo  would  have 
known  it ;  the  dream-spirit  would  have  revealed  it  to  her — say 
that  he  is  not  dead." 


262  MARY      DEKWENT. 

A  wild  animal  would  have  been  softened  by  the  anguish  of  her 
tone,  but  Esther  only  waved  her  off,  saying,  coldly — 

"  We  shall  know;  let  Tahmeroo  be  patient." 

The  tramp  of  horses  sounded  from  without,  and  through  the 
casement,  Tahmeroo  saw  her  father  dismounting  before  the  door, 
in  the  midst  of  his  warriors. 

She  rushed  into  the  broad  hall,  but  Queen  Esther  drew  her 
back  with  a  fierce  grasp. 

"Shame!"  she  hissed;  "will  the  chief's  daughter  expose 
herself  to  her  father's  braves,  like  the  burden-women  of  her 
tribe  ?" 

She  flung  Tahmeroo  aside,  as  she  might  have  thrown  down  one 
of  the  young  panther  cubs,  which  she  fed  daily  from  her  own 
hands. 

The  chief  Gi-en-gwa-tah  entered  the  room  with  his  usual 
stately  tread,  and  in  spite  of  her  grandmother's  warning  frown, 
Tahmeroo  sprang  towards  him,  extending  her  hands  in  mute 
supplication. 

"  What  news  does  the  chief  bring  to  his  daughter  ?"  Queen 
Esther  asked,  in  the  Shawnee  dialect,  for  she  seldom  spoke  her 
own  language,  carrying  her  hatred  of  the  race  even  to  an  aver 
sion  of  their  tongue. 

"  The  white  brave  is  alive,"  Gi-en-gwa-tali  replied. 

"  Then,  why  does  he  not  come  ?"  asked  Esther,  sternly. 

"Speak,  father,"  pleaded  Tahmeroo;  "is  he  sick?  where  is 
he  ?  let  me  go  to  him  !" 

"  Tahmeroo  questions  like  a  foolish  maiden,"  he  said,  reprov 
ingly,  "  and  gives  the  chief  no  time  to  answer." 

"  The  girl  is  anxious,"  Esther  said,  sternly,  with  woman's  true 
spirit  of  contradiction,  rebuking  the  chief  for  severity  which  she 
herself  would  have  shown  had  he  remained  silent.  "Where  is 
the  young  pale  face  ?  speak." 

"  A  prisoner  among  the  rebels,"  returned  Gi-en-gwa-tah. 

Tahmeroo  fell  forward  with  a  low  moan,  and  lav  upon  the 
floor  writhing  in  silent  anguish.  Even  the  chief's  dark  face 


THE    WIFE'S    STRUGGLE.  263 

softened,  and  though  nothing  enraged  Queen  Esther  so  violently 
as  any  display  of  weakness,  she  spoke  no  word  of  chiding,  but 
raised  the  girl  and  placed  her  on  a  seat. 

"  Where — where  ?"  gasped  Tahmeroo,  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak. 

"  In  Albany — there  he  has  been  for  months,  confined  in  jail 
under  sentence  of  death." 

"Save  him,  oh,  save  him!"  pleaded  Tahmeroo.  "You 
are  a  great  warrior,  my  father;  you  will  save  him!  Grand- 
dame — queen — bring  back  Tahmeroo's  husband,  or  let  her  die, 
now." 

"  If  he  is  killed,  we  will  avenge  him!"  hissed  Esther,  clutching 
the  hilt  of  the  hunting-knife  which  she  wore  in  her  girdle. 
"  Look  up,  Tahmeroo,  we  will  have  blood  for  blood!" 

"  That  will  not  give  him  back  to  me,"  said  Tahmeroo,  shud 
dering;  "blood,  always  blood — I  am  sick  of  vengeance — I  want 
my  husband." 

"We  can  do  nothing,"  Esther  replied;  "nothing  yet — 
Tahmeroo  must  be  patient;  she  knows  that  the  young  chief  is 
true  to  her." 

"  Who  dared  think  otherwise?"  exclaimed  Tahmeroo,  with 
passionate  defiance.  "  Let  all  beware — Tahmeroo  can  revenge 
also,  not  herself,  but  her  husband.  I  must  find  him,"  she  con 
tinued,  shrinking  again  into  her  womanly  weakness;  "  he  shall  be 
set  at  liberty.  Father,  father,  is  there  no  way  ?" 

"  Let  Tahmeroo  leave  us  for  a  while,"  said  Esther;  "the  chief 
cannot  counsel  with  children." 

"  But  you  will  free  him — you  are  very  powerful  ?" 

"We  can  do  nothing  yet,  but  we  can  revenge  his  death !" 

Tahmeroo  hurried  away,  horror-stricken  by  the  oft-repeated 
word,  and  flew  down  the  road  towards  the  lake.  Her  mother's 
house  was  upon  the  border  of  the  water,  and  full  three  miles  dis 
tant;  but  Tahmeroo  never  paused  for  breath,  speeding  along  with 
the  grace  and  swiftness  of  a  young  doe.  There  was  a  terrible  pres 
sure  a,t  her  heart,  but  hope  had  once  more  begun  to  revive  in  it ; 


264:  MARY     DEKWENT. 

she  knew  where  her  husband  was,  and  could  not  believe  that 
those  so  all-powerful  as  she  deemed  her  own  family,  could  bo 
without  ability  to  save  him. 

Catharine  Montour  was  seated  in  her  lonely  house,  brooding 
over  the  sad  thoughts  which  for  months  had  returned  to  torture 
her  with  greater  force  from  the  few  vague  words  which  Butler  had 
dropped  that  night,  half  in  wantonness,  half  in  revenge.  Her 
conversation  with  the  missionary  had  opened  her  long-silent 
heart,  and  amid  the  solitude  of  her  life  she  was  forced  to  listen 
to  its  troubled  beatings.  She  had  lost  much  of  the  indomitable 
will  which  had  so  long  supported  her,  and  the  barbarous  cruelly 
by  which  she  was  surrounded  became  every  day  more  painful 
and  revolting;  as  her  own  noble  nature  resumed  its  sway,  she 
grew  kind  and  gentle  as  a  child,  but  very  sad. 

Those  cruel  words  which  Butler  had  flung  like  a  dagger  at  her 
heart,  were  harder  to  bear  than  all  beside.  Murray  was  still 
alive — the  evil  chances  of  their  destiny  might  bring  them  once 
more  together,  and  that  meeting  would  be  as  painful  as  if  all  the 
long  weary  past  had  been  obliterated  and  the  early  vitality  of 
their  suffering  brought  back  upon  them.  Catharine  was  worn 
out  with  struggles;  her  former  pride  and  courage  had  forsaken 
her,  and  she  longed  to  creep  away  to  some  quiet  haunt  where 
she  might  die  alone. 

The  hard  spirit  of  infidelity  which  she  had  forced  upon  her 
soul  was  shaken  off;  she  could  no  longer  delude  herself  with  the 
false  belief  with  which  she  had  long  endeavored  to  silence  the 
pleadings  of  her  conscience,  and  the  familiar  truths  taught  her 
in  childhood,  which  were  coming  back  to  her  soul  like  a  flock  of 
doves  to  their  desolated  nests,  had  not  yet  acquired  strength 
enough  to  afford  her  comfort. 

When  the  door  opened,  and  Tahmeroo  rushed  into  the  room, 
pale  and  agitated,  she  looked  dreamily  up,  like  one  whose 
thoughts  come  back,  with  an  effort,  from  afar,  unfolded  her 
hands  from  the  loose  sleeves  of  her  robe,  and  smiled  a  sad 
welcome. 


THE    WIFE'S    STRUGGLE.  265 

"  Mother — oh,  mother  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  the  chief  has 
news — my  brave  is  a  prisoner  among  the  rebels." 

Catharine  Montour  felt  almost  a  pang  of  disappointment ;  she 
knew  that  his  desertion  or  death  would  be  nothing  to  what  must 
come.  Tahmeroo's  pride  would,  in  a  measure,  have  aided  her  to 
bear  the  former  ;  but  there  was  no  refuge  from  his  coldness  or 
neglect.  His  safety  seemed  to  her  a  misfortune. 

"  Speak,  mother — comfort  Tahmeroo,  she  is  very  wretched  ! 
Will  you  not  help  her — will  you  not  save  her  husband  ?  The 
grand-dame  talks  of  vengeance,  but  your  child  pines  for  her 
mate — you  are  merciful  and  good — oh,  help  me  1" 

"Alas,  my  poor  bird  !"  .Catharine  said,  folding  her  to  her 
heart,  "I  am  powerless  ;  the  rebels  are  our  enemies,  and  I  can 
not  go  into  their  camps." 

"  But  he  is  in  their  city — in  Albany." 

"  There,  least  of  all — they  would  only  imprison  me  also." 

"  What  is  imprisonment  or  death  1"  cried  Tahmeroo.  "  I  would 
dare  everything  to  be  near  him  !  Go  with  me,  mother — go  with 
me  !" 

"  It  is  impossible — the  chief  would  never  consent  ;  besides,  we 
should  rather  do  harm  than  good.  I  will  write  to  Sir  John 
Johnson,  who  is  in  Canada  ;  he  may  have  captives  that  he  can 
exchange  for  your — for  Butler." 

"But  weeks  and  months  will  be  wasted,  and  I  must  find  him 
at  once." 

"  But  there  is  no  way  ;  be  calm,  child — you  cannot." 

"Mother,  I  will  I  The  blood  of  great  warriors  beats  in  Tah- 
meroo's  heart ;  she  will  dare  everything — danger,  death — to  free 
her  husband  !" 

"  Listen  to  me,  Tahmeroo,  and  try  to  understand  ;  don't  trem 
ble  and  look  so  wild  !  The  means  that  you  propose  could  be  of 
no  avail.  You  must  wait  until  we  hear  from  Canada  ;  then  we 
shall  be  able  to  decide  what  is  best." 

"  I  cannot — oh,  I  cannot  1"  cried  Tahmeroo,  with  a  sudden 


266  MAEY      DEKWENT. 

burst  of  grief.     "  Nobody  has  any  pity  on  me — none  of  you  ever 
loved,  or  you  would  not  treat  Tahmeroo  so  coldly." 

Catharine's  arms  released  their  hold  and  fell  to  her  side  ;  a 
sickly  pallor  gathered  about  her  mouth,  and  her  sad  eyes  grew 
dim. 

"  Everywhere  the  same  !"  she  murmured,  "  everywhere  !  Life, 
life,  if  we  could  only  escape  it — cast  it  forth!" 

"  What  do  you  say,  mother  ?  How  white  your  lips  are.  Oh, 
you  do  pity  Tahmeroo — hold  me  to  your  heart  again,  and  tell 
me  that  you  pity  me  !" 

Catharine  took  the  unhappy  girl  to  her  bosom  in  a  long  em 
brace,  and  Tahmeroo  wept  for  a  time  in  silence.  But  soon  her 
impatience  came  back,  and  again  she  began  pleading  for  aid  to 
send  after  her  husband. 

"  Let  a  band  of  warriors  go  to  their  city,"  she  said  ;  "  we 
will  burn  it  to  ashes,  if  they  refuse  to  give  him  up  1" 

"  Oh,  Tahmeroo  !"  shuddered  Catharine  ;  "  do  not  become  a 
fiend  like  the  rest — let  not  my  own  child  be  an  added  curse  to 
me  !  Think  of  the  bloodshed,  the  innocent  lives  that  would  suf 
fer  ;  the  loving  hearts — hearts  like  your  own — that  would  be 
tortured  !" 

"  Forgive  me,  mother  ;  but  ah,  I  suffer  so  !  I  seem  going  mad  ! 
Then  the  whole  tribe  will  pity  me,  for  when  the  Great  Spirit 
tortures  a  brain  with  fire,  they  can  pity." 

She  fell  at  her  mother's  feet,  with  renewed  prayers  and  suppli 
cations  ;  but  Catharine  was  powerless,  and  though  she  pitied  her 
child,  she  was  so  worn  out  by  the  struggles  of  the  past  months, 
that  she  had  no  energy  left.  She  arose  at  length,  and  pushing 
Tahmeroo  gently  away,  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room. 

The  girl  stood  for  some  moments  in  despairing  silence  ;  then  a 
gleam  of  hope  brightened  over  her  face. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  "  I  will  go  myself  to  Albany 
— at  least,  I  shall  be  near  him.  And  the  young  pale  face  of 
Wyoming — the  Great  Spirit  has  given  her  strange  power — I  will 
go  to  her,  she  will  help  me." 


HOUSEHOLD      TALK.  267 

Before  her  mother  returned  to  the  apartment,  Tahmeroo  had 
disappeared — whither,  no  one  knew.  Half  a  dozen  of  her  father's 
warriors  quitted  the  settlement  with  her  ;  but  they  left  no  trail 
the  forest  by  which  her  route  could  be  traced. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

HOUSEHOLD   TALK. 

THE  brightness  of  a  sunset  in  early  May  settled  on  Monockonok 
Island.  It  was  now  the  spring  of  1778 — that  year  so  eventful 
in  the  annals  of  Wyoming — but  as  yet  there  was  no  warning  of 
the  fell  tragedy  which  afterwards  desolated  that  beautiful  spot. 

In  the  tidy  kitchen  of  their  little  cabin,  Mother  Derweut  was 
seated  at  her  work,  while  her  two  grand-daughters  sat  by.  The 
old  lady's  wheel  was  flying  round  with  a  pleasant  hum,  and  the 
placid  expression  of  her  wrinkled  face  betrayed  thoughts  that 
had  gone  back  to  pleasant  memories  of  the  past.  Mary  Derwent 
sat  by  the  window,  a  Bible  lay  open  on  her  lap,  from  which  she 
had  been  reading  aloud;  and  the  spring  breeze  fluttered  through 
the  casement,  making  restless  lights  on  her  golden  hair,  and 
rustling  with  a  musical  sound  among  the  worn  leaves  of  the 
sacred  volume.  The  past  year  had  somewhat  changed  Mary  ; 
her  look  of  patient  sorrow  had  given  place  to  one  of  undisturbed 
resignation  ;  those  soft  blue  eyes  had  cleared  themselves  from 
every  mist,  and  if  there  was  no  joyousness  in  their  depths,  neither 
was  there  a  trace  of  human  grief — they  were  pure  and  serene  as 
violets  that  have  caught  their  hue  by  looking  up  to  heaven. 

On  a  low  stool  at  her  feet  sat  her  sister  Jane,  occupied  with 
some  feminine  needlework  ;  but  her  skill  seemed  often  at  fault, 
and  she  would  put  her  work  on  Mary's  lap,  with  pretty  childish 
petulance,  asking  for  help.  Mary  would  look  up  from  her  read- 


268  MARY      DERWENT. 

ing,  take  the  work,  and  by  a  few  dexterous  touches  of  her  nimble 
fingers,  set  it  once  more  in  order  ;  then  restore  it  with  a  kind 
smile  to  the  beautiful  girl,  whose  mind  seemed  diverted  by  pleas 
ant  fancies  from  her  task  oftener  than  was  at  all  compatible  with 
its  progress. 

Jane,  too,  looked  happier  and  more  quiet,  the  loveliness  of 
her  face  was  no  longer  disfigured  by  the  discontent  which  had 
formerly  brooded  over  it.  The  holy  influence  of  Mary's  life  had 
wrought  its  effect  on  her  wavering  character.  The  pure  soul  of 
one  sister  had  buoyed  up  the  weak  girlishness  of  the  other  ;  from 
the  calm  strength  of  her  sister's  mind  Jane  caught  rays  of  light 
full  of  serenity  and  trustfulness.  With  no  tempter  by,  and  good 
influences  all  around  her,  Jane  had  thrown  off  much  that  had 
been  reprehensible  in  her  character,  and  was  now  more  reasona 
ble  and  considerate  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life. 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  and  Jane  hovered  restlessly  over  her 
work,  like  a  bird  longing  to  forsake  its  nest  for  the  free  air, 
ever  and  again  glancing  towards  the  winding  road  of  the  Kings 
ton  shore,  which  was  visible  from  the  window. 

"  There,  Mary,"  she  said,  at  length,  unable  longer  to  control 
her  impatience,  "I  have  almost  finished  it.  Don't  you  think  I 
might  as  well  leave  off  till  to-morrow — nay  fingers  do  ache  so  ?" 

"  You  have  been  very  industrious  this  afternoon,"  Mary  said, 
smiling.  "  I  really  think  you  have  earned  your  liberty." 

"  Besides,"  said  Jane,  "  it  is  almost  sundown." 

"  And  then  ?" 

The  color  spread  over  Jane's  forehead,  and  she  laid  her  head 
on  Mary's  knee,  twisting  her  apron-strings  with  girlish  modesty, 
born  of  real  love,  which  she  now  really  felt  for  her  affianced  hus 
band,  though  she  replied  as  if  her  sister  had  spoken  plainly. 

"  Yes  ;  Edward  Clark  is  coming.    Oh,  Mary  " She  broke 

off  abruptly,  and  turned  her  face  still  more  away,  while  the  color 
deepened  on  her  cheek. 

"  What  is  it,  Janey  ?" 

"  He  is  coming,  because — that  is,  I  promised  " 


HOUSEHOLD      TALK.  269 

"  Well — tell  me  what  you  promised." 

Grandmother  Derwent's  wheel  hummed  on,  and  she  heard 
nothing  of  their  conversation. 

When  he  was  here,  Sunday,"  continued  Jane,  with  that  desper 
ate  haste  with  which  one  rushes  into  a  difficult  revelation,  "  he 
made  me  promise  to  name  the  day  the  very  next  time  he  came, 
and  he  will  be  here  in  an  hour." 

The  pulses  of  Mary  Derwent's  heart  grew  faint  and  tremulous, 
but  she  forced  back  the  rising  emotion,  her  face  grew  clear  as 
moonlight,  and  when  she  answered,  her  voice  was  soft,  but  with 
a  touch  of  sadness  in  it. 

"  And  is  that  so  difficult  ?"  she  asked.  "  Have  you  not 
learned  by  this  time  what  will  make  your  chief  happiness  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  and  I  have  to  thank  you  for  it,  Mary.  Yon  have 
taught  me  to  be  a  better  girl  ;  I  never  will  be  wayward  again — 
indeed  I  won't.  But  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  set  to  the  time — 
I  know  I  can't." 

Mary  laid  her  hand  caressingly  upon  her  white  forehead,  and 
brushed  back  the  long  tresses  from  it. 

"  When  can  you  be  ready — how  long  will  it  take  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  can  be  all  ready  by  July,"  returned  Jane,  eagerly  ;  then 
checking  herself,  she  added,  "  at  least  I  think  so.  I  want  to 
whiten  another  web  of  cloth,  and  Aunt  Polly  Carter  has  pro 
mised  me  a  rag  carpet,  though  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  don't 
believe  she  can  find  it  in  her  heart  to  give  one  away." 

"  Then  you  must  tell  Edward  that  you  will  be  ready  in  July," 
Mary  said,  seriously,  riot  heeding  the  petty  details  to  which  her 
sister's  mind  had  wandered.  "  And  oh,  remember,  Jane,  this  is 
one  of  the  most  serious  moments  in  your  life.  Do  not  leave  a 
single  consideration  un weighed  before  you  make  this  decision.  It 
is  an  important  thing  to  do,  my  sister." 

"  Don't  look  so  sober  and  talk  so  gravely — please  don't  1  I 
have  thought  about  it  a  great  deal — I  know  I  shall  be  happy 
as — as  " 

She  paused  again,  but  this  time  Mary  made  no  effort  to  urge 


270  MAKY      DEE  WENT. 

her  completion  of  the  sentence.  She  sat*  in  dreamy  silence,  with 
her  eyes  bent  upon  the  rushing  waters.  Jane  went  on  with  an 
effort,  and  a  great  seriousness  came  over  her,  when  she  added — 

"  As  Edward  Clark's  wife." 

Even  her  volatile  nature  was  moved  by  the  enunciation  of  those 
solemn  words  which  fell — oh,  with  such  desolation — on  Mary's 
ear.  For  many  moments  Jane  sat  in  silence,  hiding  her  face  in 
the  folds  of  her  sister's  dress. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  oars  broke  up  through  the  stillness, 
and  Jane  started  to  her  feet  with  a  bustle  that  roused  Grand 
mother  Derwent  from  her  revery. 

"  I  know  who's  coming,"  she  said  ;  "there's  only  one  pair  of 
oars  on  the  river  that  can  make  Janey  jump  so." 

Jane  was  hastening  out  of  the  room,  but  she  upset  her  basket, 
and  was  forced  to  pause  and  collect  its  scattered  contents, 
so  that,  blushing  crimson,  she  had  the  full  benefit  of  the  old 
lady's  speech. 

"  It  was  rather  different  when  that  Walter  Butler  used  to 
come.  Jane  ain't  the  same  creetur  she  was  in  them  days." 

"  Oh,  Grandmother,  you  are  too  bad  !"  exclaimed  the  poor 
girl,  letting  her  basket  fall,  and  fairly  running  out  of  her  room, 
though  not  quick  enough  to  escape  the  audible  tone  in  which  the 
good  woman  continued  her  reflections. 

"  Well,  it's  the  truth  ;  she's  worth  a  hundred  times  what  she 
was  then,  and  does  double  the  work.  I  like  Edward  Clark  ;  no 
body  need  be  any  more  industrious  than  he  is,  and  if  his  wife 
ain't  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  it'll  be  her  own  fault,  I  am 
sure  of  that." 

Jane  had  escaped,  and  Mary,  after  quietly  putting  aside  the 
disordered  work,  threw  a  light  shawl  over  her  head,  and  went 
out.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  witness  the  oppressive  happiness 
of  those  two  young  beings,  so  fall  of  life,  and  strength,  and  hope. 
She  felt  the  need  of  solitude,  and  stole  quietly  out  to  the  humble 
grave  beneath  the  cedar  tree,  which  had  been  from  childhood 


HOUSEHOLD      TALK.  271 

her  favorite  haunt  for  thought  and  prayer,  when  these  melan 
choly  feelings  came  over  her. 

The  gorgeousness  of  the  sunset  fell  around  her,  and  sitting  down 
by  her  father's  grave,  Mary's  heart  went  up  in  a  silent  prayer 
for  strength  and  resignation.  When  she  lifted  her  head  again, 
she  saw  the  missionary  standing  a  little  way  off,  regarding  her 
with  the  beaming  affection  which  his  face  always  wore  when  he 
looked  upon  her. 

Mary  went  towards  him  without  the  slightest  surprise  or  em 
barrassment,  and  laid  her  hand  in  his,  which  closed  over  it  with 
a  mute  caress. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come  yesterday,"  she  said,  leading  him 
to  their  accustomed  seat  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  "  but  I 
was  disappointed." 

"  I  was  occupied,  my  child,  and  had  not  a  moment  to  spare, 
but  I  thought  of  you  a  great  deal,  and  felt  that  you  would  be 
expecting  me.  Have  you  been  well — is  all  at  rest  within  ?  You 
were  praying,  I  think,  child,  when  I  came  up." 

"  But  not  in  grief,"  Mary  replied,  with  heavenly  sadness  ; 
"  only  I  am  a  weak  creature  and  need  to  pray  more  than  other 
people  ;  if  I  don't,  strange  thoughts  are  sure  to  crowd  into  my 
heart  and  I  get  quite  frightened  at  myself." 

"  Poor  child  I"  returned  the  missionary  ;  "poor  chosen  lamb, 
how  little  you  know  of  yourself !  And  is  all  well  at  home; — 
— Janey  ?" 

"  She  is  well — oh,  sir,  she  is  going  to  be  married  very  soon." 
Mary  uttered  the  words  untremulously,  and  if  the  missionary 
noted  the  flutter  at  her  heart  he  made  no  comment. 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said  ;  "  I  never  felt  that  she  was  really  safe  ; 
young  Butler  may  return  at  any  time,  but,  once  married  to 
Edward,  we  need  have  no  fear." 

"  She  will  be  happy,"  said  Mary,  "  very  happy,  he  loves  her 
and  she  loves  him,  you  do  not  know  how  much  !  She  is  not  so 
childish  now — she  grows  quite  womanly  in  her  ways,  and  works 
till  grandma  does  nothing  but  boast  of  her  industry.  This  is 


272  MARY      DEKWENT. 

all  very  pleasant,  and  our  home  is  so  quiet  now,  one  can  rest 
in  it." 

"  And  you,  Mary,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

Mary  looked  startled — what  was  she  to  do  ?  The  thought 
had  so  seldom  presented  itself  that  she  was  astonished  by  its 
strangeness. 

"  Do  ?"  she  repeated.  "  Live  with  grandma  ;  what  else  can 
I  do  ?" 

"  But  the  time  will  come  when  she  will  no  longer  need  your 
care,  or  feel  your  affection." 

"  Then  I  shall  stay  with  Jane — no,  I  think  that  could  never 
be,  at  any  rate,  for  a  long  time;  but  I  have  you;  perhaps,  if 
grandmother  left  me,  you  would  not  mind  it  if  I  came  to  live 
with  you." 

"  What  !  in  the  wilderness  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  love  the  woods  best." 

"  An  angel  might  love  you  for  a  companion,"  murmured  the 
missionary  ;  then  he  added,  aloud,  "  but  have  you  never  thought 
of  a  more  extended  field  of  usefulness  ?  Is  there  nothing  higher 
for  which  your  mind  and  acquirements  fit  you  ?" 

"  No,  never  ;  but  it  was  wrong  of  me,"  she  said,  reproach 
fully.  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  very  idle — what  must  I  do  ? 
Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?" 

"  You  have  left  nothing  undone,  my  child  ;  you  have  been 
everything  to  your  grandmother,  a  guardian  angel  to  your  sister. 
But  the  time  may  come  when  they  will  not  need  you." 

"Then  I  shall  come  and  ask  what  I  am  to  do — you  will  teach 
me  and  help  me,  I  know  that  well  enough." 

"  Always,  child,  darling,  always  1" 

Mary  clasped  her  hand  over  his  again,  and  they  stood,  side  by 
side,  looking  across  the  waters  into  the  fading  glory  of  the  sunset. 
The  crimson  and  gold  died  slowly  away,  the  sombre  tints  of 
twilight  struggled  with  the  clear  blue  of  the  evening  sky,  a  few 
stars  came  out  and  trembled  on  the  horizon,  as  if  eager  to  wing 
their  flight  towards  the  pale  moon,  that  had  been  riding  the 


HOUSEHOLD      TALK.  273 

heavens  a  full  hour,  looking  like  a  faded  cloud  amid  the  bright 
ness  of  the  setting  sun. 

The  plash  of  oars  disturbed  them  as  they  stood  there.  Mary 
looked  quickly  around. 

"  It  cannot  be  Edward  going  so  soon,"  she  said  ;  "  I  did  not 
know  that  any  one  else  was  on  the  island." 

There  was  the  soft  tread  of  moccasins  on  the  grass,  and  before 
either  could  move,  Tahmeroo,  the  Shawnee  chief's  daughter,  was 
standing  before  them. 

Mary  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy  and  surprise  ;  the  In 
dian  girl  threw  herself  forwards,  as  if  to  kneel  at  Mary's  feet, 
but  the  gentle  girl  stretched  forth  her  arms  and  drew  the  young 
Indian  to  her  bosom  with  a  fervent  embrace.  The  missionary 
stood  silent  and  pale  during  that  prolonged  caress,  his  hand  ex 
tended  almost  as  if  he  would  have  repulsed  the  savage  and  forced 
Mary  from  her  clinging  arms. 

"  I  began  to  think  you  would  never  return,"  murmured  the 
deformed,  when  the  Indian  girl  raised  her  head  ;  "  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you  once  more  !" 

"  Yes,  it  is  many,  many  moons  ;  but  Tahmeroo  has  never  for 
gotten  the  young  pale-face.  Tahmeroo  has  great  trouble,  and 
she  comes  to  you  for  help,  to  you  and  this  good  prophet,"  she 
continued,  turning  toward  the  missionary. 

"  What  can  we  do  for  you  ?"  Mary  asked. 

"  Much — the  white  medicine  is  very  powerful  ;  he  will  help 
me,  and  you,  too,  you  will  not  send  Tahmeroo  away  miserable, 
and  without  some  hope,  of  seeing  her  lord  again." 

The  missionary  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  the  stern  pallor 
of  his  face  softened.  That  short  year  had  wrought  a  great 
change  in  the  poor  girl.  The  healthful  brown  of  her  cheek  had 
given  place  to  a  sickly  pallor,  her  temples  were  hollow  and 
sunken,  and  her  black  eyes  blazed  with  a  strange  brilliancy, 
which  betrayed  the  consuming  fever  within.  Her  dress  looked 
travel-stained,  and  there  was  a  carelessness  about  her  attire 

18 


274  MARY      DEEWENT. 

widely  at  variance  with  the  picturesque  neatness  which  had  for 
merly  characterized  her. 

The  unrest  of  the  heart  was  in  her  face,  painful  always  to  re 
mark  in  the  young,  doubly  painful  when  breaking  through  the 
wild  beauty  of  that  youthful  savage.  She  understood  the  im 
pression  which  her  altered  lineaments  made  upon  her  observers, 
and  said,  with  a  forced  smile — 

"  Tahmeroo  is  a  girl  no  longer  ;  sorrow  has  forced  the  fresh 
ness  out  of  her  heart,  as  the  thunder  tempest  beats  the  breath 
out  of  the  wild  rose." 

"  What  has  happened  to  you  ?"  questioned  Mary.  "  Your 
mother,  your  noble  mother  ?" 

The  missionary  started,  and  echoed  the  words,  "  Your  mo 
ther." 

"  Catharine  Montour  is  well,  though  she  may  be  pining  for 
her  child  ;  but  he,  my  husband,  they  have  taken  him  prisoner  ; 
Tahmeroo  has  not  seen  him  for  months  ;  they  will  kill  him,  per 
haps,  before  she  can  reach  the  spot.  No  one  would  help  save 
him,  not  even  my  mother,  so  I  fled  hither." 

"  I  had  heard  of  this,"  whispered  the  missionary  ;  "he  was 
taken  nearly  a  year  since,  and  put  in  prison,  as  a  spy." 

"  A  spy  1"  repeated  Tahmeroo,  overhearing  the  last  word  ; 
"  he  serves  his  king.  Those  that  have  captured  him  are  miserable 
rebels.  But  let  them  beware — it  is  Gi-en-gwa-tah's  son  that  they 
have  imprisoned  ;  the  children  of  Queen  Esther  never  forget  nor 
forgive." 

Her  face  darkened  with  passion,  and  would  have  been  abso 
lutely  forbidding,  had  not  womanly  tenderness  for  her  husband 
softened  its  hardness. 

"  Shame,  Tahmeroo  !"  exclaimed  the  missionary.  "  You  must 
know  that  such  thoughts  are  wrong  ;  your  mother  has  taught 
you  that  they  offend  the  Great  Spirit." 

"  Forgive  me,  oh  forgive  Tahmeroo  !"  she  cried,  throwing  her 
self  on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  and  clasping  his  knees  with  her 


HOUSEHOLD      TALK.  275 

wasted  arms.  The  missionary  struggled  for  an  instant,  as  if  her 
touch  were  unpleasant  to  him,  but  she  held  him  firmly.  "  Tah- 
meroo  is  very  wretched,  oh  speak  some  comfort  to  her — a  good 
prophet  finds  consolation  for  every  one,  Catharine  Montour  says 
— oh,  take  pity  on  her  child." 

The  missionary  raised  her  gently,  and  for  the  first  time,  held 
her  hand  firmly  in  his  clasp,  though  his  form  shook  with  emotion. 
Mary's  tears  were  falling  like  gentle  rain,  as  she  bent  over  the 
suffering  girl,  and  the  missionary  placed  Tahmeroo's  head  upon 
her  bosom,  saying  softly — 

"  Ay,  comfort  her,  little  one  ;  it  is  but  right  I" 

Tahmeroo  remained  motionless  for  many  moments  ;  at  length 
she  raised  her  head,  and  wiping  away  the  tear-drops  with  her 
long  black  hair,  strove  to  relate  her  story  more  connectedly. 

"  I  came  all  the  way  from  Seneca  Lake  to  find  you,"  she  said. 
"  No  one  could  help  me — our  great  medicine  men  could  only  pity  me 
when  asked  for  counsel.  My  father  had  power  to  revenge  his 
loss,  but  that  did  not  bring  him  back.  Catharine,  my  mother, 
who  was  once  brave  as  a  lion  when  Tahmeroo  was  wronged,  even 
in  a  little  thing,  now  looked  on  with  heavy  eyes,  and  when  I 
pleaded  with  her,  said — oh,  with  such  cruel  stillness — '  It  is  better 
thus,  my  child  ;  his  presence  here  must  ever  be  a  curse  to  me  and 
mine.'  Such  words  stung  me  like  wasps — my  heart  burned — I 
remembered  you  a  sweet  medicine  spirit,  whom  even  our  enemies 
love.  I  left  my  grandmother's  lodge  in  the  night,  caught  a 
horse,  and  fled." 

I  "  And  you  will,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  while  the  tears  of  her 
spent  gust  of  passion  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks  ;  "  you  will 
help  the  Indian  girl,  for  you  are  good  and  powerful.  When 
you  ask,  his  enemies  will  give  him  up." 

"  My  poor  child  !"  returned  the  missionary  j  "  I  can  see  no 
way  to  help  you." 

"  If  they  will  only  let  her  see  her  husband  once  more,  Tah 
meroo  would  be  a  slave  to  his  enemies." 

"  But  he  is  in  prison,  you  cannot  get  near  him." 


276  MARY      DERWENT. 

"  But  the  white  prophet  will  ask,  and  the  prison  door  will  be 
left  open  that  Tahmeroo  may  steal  in." 

"  Yes,  I  will  write  to  General  Schuyler ;  he  will  hardly  refuse 
to  let  a  wife  see  her  husband." 

Tahmeroo  fell  to  kissing  his  hands,  while  the  tears  in  her  eyes 
flashed  like  diamonds. 

"  You  will  write.  They  will  take  pity  on  me,  and  let  me  hear 
him  speak." 

"  But  they  will  not  let  you  remain  with  him." 

"  But  I  will  stay  in  sight  of  his  prison  ;  I  will  sell  myself 
as  a  slave — do  anything,  if  they  will  only  let  me  stay  near 
him." 

The  missionary  sat  down  upon  the  ground,  and  taking  from 
his  coat  the  little  case  of  writing  materials,  which  he  always 
carried  about  him,  wrote  a  few  lines  and  gave  them  to  Tah 
meroo. 

"  Read  them,"  he  said,  "  I  can  do  nothing  more." 

"It  is  enough,  enough  !  Bless  you,  bless  you  1"  exclaimed 
Tahmeroo,  seizing  his  hand  and  pressing  it  to  her  lips.  The 
missionary  withdrew  it  gently,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  And  when  do  you  start  ?"  Mary  asked. 

"  Before  the  evening  stars  look  into  the  water,  Tahmeroo  will 
be  far  away." 

"  Come  home  with  me  first,  and  get  some  food  and  rest," 
Mary  urged,  taking  her  hand. 

"  Tahmeroo  has  no  need  of  food  and  rest."  She  laid  one 
hand  on  her  heart,  and  finished  the  sentence  with  a  mournful 
bend  of  the  head. 

"  Do  not  go  to-night — stay  with  me." 

"  The  pale  medicine  is  very  kind,  and  Tahmeroo  loves  her,  but 
she  must  go  ;  some  of  her  father's  warriors  wait  near  the  old 
camping-ground,  and  will  show  her  the  way." 

"But  you  must  not  seek  your  husband  in  that  dress.  The 
Shawnees  are  enemies  to  the  people  you  seek  ;  to  go  in  their 
costume  would  be  dangerous.  Mary,  see  to  this  ;  one  of  your 


HOUSEHOLD      TALK.  277 

sister  Jane's  dresses  will  answer.  Take  the  poor  stranger  into 
the  cabin  and  prepare  her  for  the  journey." 

With  gentle  hospitality,  Mary  led  the  young  Indian  away. 
Fortunately,  the  old  lady  had  gone  down  to  the  spring  to 
dampen  some  cloth  she  was  whitening  there,  and  as  we  have 
seen,  Jane  was  rambling  upon  the  opposite  shore  with  her  lover. 

The  missionary  was  right,  Jane's  dresses  fitted  Tahmeroo  very 
neatly,  and  fifteen  minutes  after  she  entered  the  little  bed-room, 
arrayed  in  her  own  gorgeous  raiment,  she  came  forth  as  pretty 
a  country  girl  as  one  would  wish  to  see  ;  carrying  her  own  clothes 
tied  up  in  a  little  bundle,  for  she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave 
them  behind. 

"  But  you  will  come  back  again,"  said  Mary,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  as  they  once  more  stood  by  the  missionary  under  the 
cedars. 

"Or  sleep,"  said  Tahmeroo,  pointing  to  the  earth  with  a 
significant  gesture  ;  "for  when  the  corn  shoots  green,  you  will 
call  for  help,  and  Tahmeroo  will  keep  her  ears  open." 

"  But  the  distance  is  great — you  will  perish  on  the  way." 

"  Farewell  I  Tahmeroo  must  follow  her  heart.  She  has  her 
rifle,  and  knows  how  to  shoot.  Son  of  the  Great  Spirit,  lay 
your  hand  once  more  upon  my  head  ;  it  will  give  me  courage." 

She  bowed  her  head  before  tlie  missionary,  and  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  full  of  devout  pity  for  that  poor  creature,  who 
had  been  so  hardly  tried. 

"  Farewell  1" 

Without  a  word  more,  Tahmeroo  turned  from  the  spot,  sprang 
into  her  canoe,  and  pushed  it  out  of  the  cove,  a  few  vigorous 
strokes  of  her  lithe  arms  sending  it  far  up  the  river. 

Once  she  looked  back  and  waved  her  hand  ;  Mary  saw  the 
signal  through  her  blinding  tears,  and  waved  her  shawl  in  return. 
The  Indian  girl  did  not  cast  another  glance  towards  them  ;  but 
bending  all  her  energies  to  the  task,  kept  her  little  craft  on  its 
course  up  the  stream. 

Mary  and  the  missionary  stood  watching  her  until  a  bend  in 


278  MAEY      DEKWENT. 

the  shore  shut  the  canoe  from  sight ;  then  they  turned  and  walked 
slowly  towards  the  house,  inexpressibly  moved  by  the  sight  of 
that  poor  girl's  wretchedness  and  fortitude. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE     JAIL     AT     ALBANY. 

AN  Indian  girl — no  uncommon  thing  in  the  streets  of  Albany, 
in  the  days  of  the  Revolution — stood  patiently  waiting  before 
the  entrance  to  the  jail  at  Albany.  She  had  remained  in  the 
same  spot  at  least  six  hours,  without  moving  from  the  stone  abut 
ment  against  which  she  leaned,  or  turning  her  eyes  from  the 
door,  with  its  iron  knobs  and  enormous  lock,  which  was  sunk 
deep  into  the  gable-end  of  that  old  building.  The  hot  noon-day 
sun  had  beat  upon  her  head  ;  she  drew  the  crimson  shawl  a  little 
more  over  her  face,  but  gave  no  signs  of  moving.  The  quaint 
gables  threw  their  lacework  shadows  down  where  the  sun  had 
been  ;  but  she  took  no  heed.  It  was  only  when  some  step  ap 
proached  near  the  jail,  or  a  sound  came  from  within,  that  she 
gave  signs  of  the  quick  life  burning  in  her  bosom. 

Three  or  four  times  during  that  day  had  Tahmeroo  beat  her 
hands  against  that  cruel  door,  hoping  madly  that  some  one  might 
come  and  let  her  in.  But  prison  portals  do  not  yield  readily  to 
human  impatience,  either  from  within  or  without,  and  the  poor 
girl  had  nothing  left  but  that  long  watch,  where  she  stood  mo 
tionless,  though  on  the  alert,  full  of  fiery  impatience,  but  of  stub- 
resolution  too. 

As  she  stood  upon  this  steady  watch,  a  horseman  rode  up  the 
street,  followed  by  a  servant.  Instead  of  galloping  on,  as  so 
many  had  done  during  the  day,  he  drew  up  before  the  jail,  flung 


THE     JAIL     AT     ALBANY.  279 

his  bridle  to  the  attendant,  and  going  up  to  the  door  which  Tah- 
ineroo  was  eyeing  so  wistfully,  struck  it  a  blow  with  the  loaded 
handle  of  his  riding-whip. 

Tahmeroo  sprang  forward  when  she  heard  the  bolts  begin  to 
move,  but  she  was  an  instant  too  late.  A  dark  passage  within 
engulfed  the  visitor,  and  the  door  swung  back  to  its  lock  again 
with  a  loud  jar,  which  made  the  poor  girl  almost  cry  out,  so 
great  was  the  shock  of  her  disappointment. 

The  servant  saw  the  anguish  in  her  face,  and  being  a  good- 
natured  fellow,  with  nothing  else  to  employ  him  at  the  moment, 
moved  towards  the  jail,  and  kindly  inquired  what  she  wanted 
there. 

"  I  only  want  that  door  to  open  and  let  me  in,"  she  said,  cast 
ing  a  pitiful  look  at  the  entrance,  from  which  she  had  been  so 
cruelly  excluded. 

"  Aud  who  is  it  you  want  to  see,  my  purty  red  bird  ?  Now,  I 
tell  you  what,  it's  easier  getting  into  that  door  than  getting  out 
again,  as  many  a  poor  feller  can  tell  you.  Who  is  it  you're  after  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  my  husband." 

"  Your  husband  ?" 

"  Yes,  Captain  Walter  Butler." 

"  Hallo  !  and  are  you  his  wife  ?  Why,  the  general  has  just 
gone  in  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  if  the  Tory  spy  is  as  sick  as  he 
pretends." 

"  Sick— is  he  sick,  did  you  say  ?"  cried  Tahmeroo,  turning  of 
an  ashen  paleness. 

"  Don't  turn  so  pale — don't  fret  about  it — I've  an  idee  it's  all 
sham  ;  but  the  general  will  soon  find  out — it  isn't  easy  cheating 
him." 

"  But  he  is  sick — I  must  see  him  this  moment — do  you  hear  ? 
this  moment — tell  me  where  I  can  carry  this  letter  ;  they  told 
me  the  gentleman  was  not  here,  but  I  will  go  where  he  is — I'll 
follow  on,  and  on,  forever,  to  find  the  man  that  has  power  to 
pass  me  through  that  door  1" 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  letter." 


280  MAKY      DERWENT. 

Tahraeroo  gave  it  to  him,  trembling  with  impatience  to  be  off. 

"Why,  this  is  to  General  Schuyler  himself  1  All  right— just 
wait  here  and  give  it  to  him  as  he  comes  out — don't  be  afraid  ; 
for  all  his  grand  looks,  he's  tender  hearted  as  a  baby.  Come, 
come  ;  don't  get  so  down  in  the  mouth  j  it'll  all  turn  out  right 
somehow — things  always  do." 

"  And  was  that  the  man  who  holds  my  husband  in  prison  ?" 
said  Tahmeroo,  flushing  with  indignation.  "By  what  right — 
how  dares  he  ?" 

"  Hush — hush — that  talk'll  never  do  ;  soft  words  are  better 
than  bullets  here  ;  just  let  them  bright  tears  creep  into  your 
eyes  again,  if  you  can  just  as  easy  as  not  ;  they'll  do  more  for 
you  than  a  hull  artillery  of  curses." 

Tahmeroo  scarcely  heard  this  advice,  but  stood  with  the  letter 
in  her  hand,  keenly  watching  the  door.  She  placed  herself  di 
rectly  between  the  restive  war-horse  and  the  entrance  to  the  jail. 
At  last  there  was  a  clang  of  bolts,  a  sudden  swing  of  the  pon 
derous  door,  and  Tahmeroo  saw  in  the  darkness  beyond  two 
men,  who  paused  together  in  that  gloomy  arch  for  a  moment's 
conversation. 

One  of  these  men  the  Indian  girl  recognized  at  once,  by  the 
glitter  of  his  uniform  and  the  singular  dignity  of  his  counte 
nance,  which  in  breadth  of  forehead  and  the  grave  composure 
which  marks  a  well-regulated  character,  was  not  unlike  that  of 
General  Washington  himself. 

After  a  moment,  Schuyler  stepped  out  of  the  darkness.  He 
was  then  forty-four  years  of  age;  a  period  when  the  impulses  of 
youth  are  mellowed,  but  not  hardened  in  the  bosoms  of  truly 
great  men. 

"  Now — now  ?"  whispered  the  attendant. 

Tahmeroo  held  her  breath,  and  went  slowly  forward,  her 
bright,  steady  glance  fastened  on  the  general's  face,  till  their 
very  intensity  drew  his  glance  that  way. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  he  said,  stopping  short  with  the  missionary's 
letter  in  his  hand,  but  perusing  that  young  face  with  a  penetrating 


THE     JA.IL     AT     ALBANY.  281 

glance  before  he  opened  it.  "A  letter  from ,  ha  !  I  under 
stand  it  now — and  have  you  corne  all  this  distance  to  see  your 
husband  ?  so  young,  too  1" 

Tahmeroo  could  only  point  to  the  door  with  her  trembling 
finger. 

"  My  husband — he  is  there — oh,  make  them  open  the  door. 
Tahmeroo  has  no  breath  to  speak  with  till  they  let  her  in 
yonder." 

Schuyler  smiled,  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  knocked  again  at 
the  prison  door.  It  was  promptly  opened. 

"  Conduct  this  young  woman  to  Captain  Butler's  room;  she  is 
his  wife,"  he  said,  addressing  the  jailer.  "  See  that  no  one 
treats  her  rudely — but  this  one  interview  must  be  enough ;  to 
morrow  the  young  man  will  be  removed  to  the  custody  of  a 
private  family,  where  his  health  can  be  cared  for;  he  frets  like  a 
caged  panther  here." 

Turning  to  Tahmeroo,  before  he  mounted  his  horse,  the  gene 
ral  said  in  a  kindly,  paternal  way:  "Now  make  the  best  of 
your  time,  my  poor  girl;  it  is  well  you  caught  me  here,  for  I 
should  have  been  off  to  the  camp  again  in  less  than  an 
hour." 

Tahmeroo  could  not  speak;  she  saw  the  door  open,  and  cast 
ing  back  one  brilliant  glance  of  gratitude,  darted  through. 

Schuyler  smiled  quietly,  muttered,  "  Poor  thing,  poor  thing!" 
once  or  twice,  and  mounting  his  horse,  rode  away. 

"  My  husband— Walter  1" 

Butler  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  an  exclamation  of  delight. 
He  was  prostrate  on  a  low  camp  bed  when  she  entered,  as 
General  Schuyler  had  left  him,  apparently  exhausted  by  illness. 

"  Tahmeroo,  my  hawk — my  pretty  rattlesnake." 

"Oh,  you  are  sick,  you  are  dying!"  cried  the  heart-stricken 
wife,  losing  all  strength  and  dropping  on  her  knees  by  the  bed 
he  had  just  left. 

"  Hush,  hush,  child — don't  make  all  this  outcry.  It  isn't  sick 
ness  at  all ;  see,  I  am  strong  enough  to  lift  you ;"  and  taking 


MAKY      DEE  WENT. 

the  young  Indian  in  his  arms,  he  bore  her  across  the  small  room 
and  returning  again,  sat  down  on  the  bed,  still  holding  her  in 
his  embrace. 

She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  weep;  to  breathe  then  and 
there,  was  happiness  enough  for  her. 

"  Ah,  but  you  cheat  Tahmeroo.  Your  face  is  white  as  snow; 
you,  you  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  well,  never  better  in  my  life,"  he  whispered, 
hurriedly;  "  but  my  only  chance  of  escape  lay  in  seeming  ill.  I 
have  petitioned  again  and  again  to  see  General  Schuyler,  but 
until  to-day  he  never  came.  I  have  made  my  face  white  and  my 
voice  weak  for  him.  It  has  done  its  work,  Tahmeroo;  to-mor 
row  I  shall  be  taken  from  this  gloomy  place,  and  confined  in  a 
private  family,  from  which  there  is  some  chance  of  escape. 
Now,  are  you  satisfied  that  I  am  not  dying  ?" 

Tahmeroo  laughed,  and  clasped  her  hands  hard  to  keep  from 
clapping  them,  in  her  joy.  Her  eyes  shone  like  diamonds.  The 
whole  thing  fired  her  Indian  blood,  which  delighted  in  craft 
almost  as  much  as  in  courage. 

"  And  I  shall  go  with  you — I  shall  see  you  every  day.  Oh,  I 
remember  now — that  proud  man  said  that  I  must  only  come  this 
once — only  once." 

"Don't  cry;  don't  begin  to  tremble  after  this  fashion.  An 
Indian  wife  should  be  brave,"  said  Butler,  terrified  by  her 
agitation. 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  shook  back  the  hair  from  her  temples 
with  a  gesture  of  queenly  pride. 

"  Tahmeroo  is  brave.  See,  if  you  can  find  tears  in  her 
eyes  ?» 

"  That's  right;  now  listen.  Since  you  have  come  in  I  have 
thought  of  something.  If  you  only  had  an  old  dress  with 
you,  such  as  white  people  wear;  but  these  things  are  too  fanci 
ful,  they  will  never  do." 

"  How  !  you  want  a  poor  dress,  stained  by  water  and  faded 
by  the  sun;  is  that  it?" 


K  * 

THE     JAIL     AT     ALBANY.  283 

"  Exactly;  but  this  toggery  can  never  be  brought  into  the 
right  condition." 

"  Look,  will  this  do  ?" 

Tahmeroo  untied  a  little  bundle  which  she  had  carried  under 
her  shawl,  and  displayed  the  dress  Mary  Derwent  had  given  her, 
worn  and  faded  by  a  long  journey  on  horseback;  and  which, 
notwithstanding  the  missionary's  advice  to  the  contrary,  she  had 
exchanged  for  her  own  more  brilliant  costume,  before  visiting 
her  husband. 

"Do  1  it  is  just  the  thing.  Put  it  up — put  it  up,  before  the 
jailer  comes  in.  Now  listen — thank  heaven,  you  can  read.  In 
this  paper  you  will  find  the  name  of  a  family  with  which  they 
intend  to  confine  me.  The  people  excused  themselves  from 
taking  me  to-day  from  want  of  help.  Servants  are  not  easily 
got  in  Albany  these  times — do  you  comprehend  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Tahmeroo,  taking  up  his  thoughts  quick  as 
lightning.  "  I  am  to  put  on  this  dress,  comb  back  rny  hair,  look 
like  a  white  girl  used  to  work,  and  be  a  servant  to  these  people. 
Then,  then — some  night  after  all  are  asleep,  I  must  watch  the 
sentinel,  give  him  fire-water,  or  take  the  flint  from  his  gun,  and 
then  away  for  the  forest." 

"  My  brave,  bright  girl  1" 

Tahmeroo  went  on: 

"  My  warriors  are  in  the  neighborhood,  waiting  with  their 
horses — I  have  gold  in  my  dress — I  am  strong,  proud — it  seems 
as  if  all  our  warriors  were  fighting  for  you,  and  I  leading  them 
on,  this  moment  1" 

She  fell  into  his  arms,  trembling  for  very  joy. 

He  held  her  to  his  heart — it  was  not  all  base  when  that  noble 
creature  lay  against  it.  He  kissed  her  warmly.  There  was  a 
world  of  selfishness  in  that  kiss,  but  Tahmeroo  guessed  nothing 
of  that. 

"  Now  go,  my  lark,  go — search  out  the  house  they  intend  for 
my  prison.  To-morrow  I  shall  find  you  there." 

Tahmeroo  arose  ;  she  was  in  haste  to  be  at  work  ;  the  idea  of 


284  MAEY      DERWENT. 

saving  her  husband  made  her  forget  that  he  was  eager  to  send 
her  away.  No  one  but  the  jailer  saw  her  when  she  departed  ; 
but  he  wondered  at  the  splendor  of  her  beauty,  which  seemed 
to  have  heightened  tenfold  since  she  entered  the  building. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

THE     DISGUISED     SERVANT. 

A  MIDDLE-AGED  gentleman  and  lady  sat  in  one  of  those  quaint 
parlors,  which  occupied  the  gable-front  of  an  old  Dutch  house, 
such  as  may  be  seen  in  Albany,  as  relics  of  a  past  age,  even  to 
this  day.  The  room  was  neat,  almost  to  chilliness  :  blue  tiles 
ornamented  the  chimney-piece  ;  blue  tiles  ran  in  a  border  round 
the  oaken  floor  ;  the  gentleman's  coat  was  of  blue  ;  his  stockings 
were  seamed  with  blue  ;  and  his  dame's  linen  dress  was  striped 
with  the  same  color.  Thus  they  sat  in  this  coldly-tinted  apartment, 
after  dinner,  conversing  together  about  the  strange  guest  they 
had  consented  to  receive  into  their  house,  at  the  urgent  request 
of  General  Schuyler,  who  believed  that  close  confinement  rrad 
really  endangered  Butler's  life,  and  wished  to  be  humane  ;  while 
he  was  not  willing  to  set  a  man  so  dangerous  at  perfect  liberty. 

While  the  good  Dutchman  and  his  wife  were  talking  over  the 
difficulties  of  this  arrangement,  which  became  more  important 
from  the  fact,  that  their  only  maid-servant  had  left  her  place, 
on  hearing  of  the  new  claim  likely  to  be  made  on  her  labors,  a 
staid  old  man,  who  had  been  detailed  to  guard  the  prisoner  when 
he  came,  entered  the  room,  and  announced  a  country  girl,  from 
across  the  river,  who  wished  to  hire  herself  out. 

This  was  a  piece  of  good  fortune  which  neither  of  the  occu 
pants  of  the  parlor  had  expected — for  servants  were  not  to  be 


THE     DISGUISED     SERVANT.  285 

had  for  the  asking,  when  so  much  wild  land  lay  ready  for  tillage, 
and  labor  was  mostly  applied  in  building  up  homes  for  the  work 
ing  classes. 

While  they  were  quietly  congratulating  themselves,  the  appli 
cant  came  into  the  room.  She  was  a  plain,  and  rather  shabbily 
dressed  girl — singularly  handsome,  notwithstanding  the  poverty 
of  her  raiment — who  entered  the  parlor  with  the  free  grace  of  a 
fawn,  and  spoke  in  accents  which  would  have  appeared  far  too' 
pure  for  her  humble  appearance  with  any  one  to  whom  the 
English  language  was  a  native  tongue. 

The  Dutchman,  fortunately,  understood  very  little  English,  and 
the  country  girl  was  profoundly  ignorant  of  Dutch  ;  so  as  the 
conversation  was  necessarily  carried  on  between  the  soldier  and 
the  girl,  the  matter  of  reference  was  easily  settled.  In  half  an 
hour  after  her  entrance,  the  maid  was  busy  at  her  work  in  the 
kitchen. 

The  next  day  Butler  was  brought  to  his  new  prison,  seeming 
very  feeble,  and  scarcely  strong  enough  to  walk  to  the  chamber, 
far  up  in  the  peaked  roof,  which  had  been  assigned  for  his  safe 
keeping.  The  soldier  observed  that  he  looked  earnestly  at  the 
new  maid-servant  in  passing  up  stairs,  and  that  a  smile  quivered 
on  his  lip,  when  he  saw  her.  But  this  was  not  strange  ;  older 
evM than  his  might  have  kindled  at  the  sight  of  that  beautiful 
f  JP;  it  almost  made  a  fool  of  the  tender-hearted  soldier  him 
self. 

After  the  prisoner  had  been  installed  in  his  chamber,  the  new 
servant  would  linger  there  a  little  after  serving  his  meals,  and 
once  the  sentinel  fancied  that  he  saw  the  two  whispering  together, 
as  she  sat  down  the  dishes  ;  but  when  the  rustic  beauty  came 
out,  she  was  sure  to  drive  all  suspicion  from  his  head  with  an 
arch  smile,  that  intoxicated  him  more  deliciously  than  the  best 
corn  whisky  he  ever  drank. 

On  the  third  day,  what  little  heart  the  poor  fellow  had  left 
after  his  first  interview  was  completely  gone  ;  and  when  she 
came  up  at  nine  o'clock,  and  asked  him,  with  a  charming  smile, 


286  MARY      DEE  WENT. 

to  step  down  into  the  kitchen  and  taste  a  mug  of  hot  punch, 
with  lemon  in  it,  which  she  had  just  been  brewing,  it  required  all 
his  patriotism  to  refuse  ;  and  he  apologized  for  doing  his  duty, 
with  humility,  as  if  it  had  been  a  sin. 

The  new  servant  pouted  at  first,  but  took  better  thought  and 
suffered  herself  to  be  appeased  ;  so,  as  a  pledge  of  perfect  recon 
ciliation,  after  the  little  quarrel,  she  proposed  to  run  to  the  kit 
chen  and  bring  the  jug  of  punch  up  to  his  post,  where  he  might 
drink  and  smoke  at  his  leisure,  while  she  filled  the  glass. 

This  was  a  charming  arrangement,  and  the  sentinel  enjoyed 
it  amazingly  ;  he  drank  of  the  punch,  and  tried  the  Dutchman's 
best  pipe,  which  the  maid  brought  surreptitiously  from  the  parlor, 
after  her  master  had  retired  to  bed.  Thus  he  drank  and  smoked 
till  everything  became  foggy  around  him,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
encompassed  by  half  a  dozen  pretty  girls,  all  serving  out  punch 
for  him,  to  say  nothing  of  any  number  of  grotesque  pipes  that 
danced  under  his  nose,  and  a  whole  stock  of  muskets  that  crowd 
ed  round  his  own  trusty  shooting-iron,  which  rested  against  the 
door. 

After  this  singular  phenomenon,  the  trusty  sentinel  kept  his 
post  with  great  pertinacity — but  he  was  sound  asleep,  and  breath 
ing  like  an  engine  under  a  double  head  of  steam. 

Then  the  chamber-door  was  softly  unlocked,  and  the  pretty 
maid-servant  gave  a  signal  to  some  one  within.  Directly  Butler 
appeared,  ready  dressed,  and,  treading  softly  over  the  sentinel, 
followed  his  Indian  wife  down  stairs,  out  of  the  house,  and  along 
the  narrow  streets  of  Albany. 

A  quick  walk  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a  low  whistle,  and 
out  from  a  piece  of  woods  came  half  a  dozen  mounted  savages, 
leading  two  horses,  forest  bred,  and  swift  as  deer. 

Tahmeroo  leaped  upon  one,  Butler  mounted  the  other,  and 
away  for  the  Valley  of  Wyoming,  where  Butler  knew  that  his 
father  would  soon  meet  him  with  an  avenging  army. 


THE     GATHERING     STOEM.  287 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE      GATHERING      STORM. 

THE  year  of  1778  marked  a  terrible  epoch  in  the  annals  of  our 
Revolution.  Sir  John  and  Guy  Johnson,  with  the  Butlers  and 
other  native  Tories  of  New  York  State,  had  vigorously  cooperated 
with  Brant,  Queen  Esther,  and  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  whose  united  in 
fluence  gave  almost  the  entire  strength  of  the  Six  Nations  to  the 
British.  With  all  these  unnatural  combinations  at  work  on  the 
frontier — witli  Brant  perpetrating  his  barbarities  on  one  hand, 
Sir  John  Johnson  sweeping  down  from  his  refuge  in  Canada, 
devastating  wherever  he  went,  and  the  regular  army  too  busily 
occupied  on  the  sea-board  for  any  hope  of  succor  from  that 
source,  the  isolated  towns  and  villages  of  what  was  then  the  "  far 
west,"  became  the  scenes  of  the  most  ruthless  system  of  warfare 
ever  perpetrated  among  civilized  nations. 

But  all  the  cruelties  that  had  commenced  in  1777  were  no 
thing  compared  to  those  now  in  preparation,  when  the  savages 
were  ready  to  take  up  arms  in  masses,  after  their  own  ruthless 
fashion,  and  the  exiled  Royalists,  driven  out  from  their  homes,  had 
become  more  vindictive,  if  possible,  than  their  savage  allies. 

The  Valley  of  Wyoming  was  that  year  peculiarly  exposed. 
Its  strongest  men  were  serving  in  the  general  army,  but  those 
who  were  left  not  only  foresaw  the  peril  which  lay  before  them, 
but  prepared  against  it  to  the  extent  of  their  ability.  Winter- 
rnoot's  Fort  was  nothing  less  than  a  stronghold  of  the  enemy,  and 
the  resort  of  Tories  who  had  fled  or  wandered  from  the  interior 
of  New  York,  for  the  real  natives  of  the  valley  were  true 
patriots,  almost  to  a  man. 

With  prompt  energy  these  men  went  to  work,  strengthening 
their  defences.  Block-houses,  already  made,  were  put  in  repair, 
stockades  were  planted,  new  forts  were  built,  till  the  river,  above 


288  MART      DERWENT. 

and  below  Wintermoot's  Fort,  was,  to  every  possible  extent, 
fortified  against  the  common  enemy. 

But  this  military  work  was  done  in  connection  with  the  usual 
agricultural  labor.  While  forts  were  building,  seed  was  put 
into  the  earth,  and  on  the  first  of  July,  1778,  every  acre  of  land 
as  yet  redeemed  from  the  wilderness  was  rich  with  a  springing 
harvest. 

Each  farmer,  as  he  worked,  held  himself  ready  for  military 
duty.  Eeady  to  seize  his  axe  or  scythe,  at  the  blast  of  a  horn, 
or  the  summon  of  a  conch  shell,  in  the  hand  of  an  old  woman  or 
child,  if  peril  threatened  either,  and  lay  down  his  life,  if  need 
was,  in  their  defence.  In  those  days  men  carried  their  muskets 
to  the  meadow,  or  plough-field,  regularly  as  they  went  to 
work. 

The  women  of  Wyoming  rose  and  took  their  places  bravely 
upon  the  hearthstone,  ready  to  defend  the  children  who  clung 
to  their  garments,  when  the  son  or  father  fell  upon  the  door 
step.  They  worked  like  their  husbands  ;  impending  danger  gave 
them  quick  knowledge,  and  women  whose  ideas  of  chemistry  had 
never  gone  beyond  the  ash  leech  and  cheese-press,  fell  to  manu 
facturing  saltpetre.  They  tore  up  the  floors  of  their  cabins, 
dug  up  the  earth,  put  it  in  casks,  and  mingling  the  water, 
drained  through  with  ash  ley,  boiled  it  above  their  fires,  and 
when  the  compound  grew  cold  in  their  wash-tubs,  saltpetre  rose 
to  the  top,  and  thus  a  supply  of  gunpowder  was  obtained.  Nor 
did  the  women  of  Wyoming  stop  here.  While  the  young  men 
were  carried  off  to  the  Continental  army,  and  old  silver-headed 
men  were  left  to  till  the  earth  and  muster  in  companies  for  de 
fence,  delicate  women  and  fair  young  girls  took  to  the  field  and 
worked,  side  by  side,  with  the  old  men,  whose  strength  was 
scarcely  greater  than  their  own.  It  was  a  brave,  beautiful  sight, 
which  the  American  woman  of  our  nineteenth  century  will  do 
wisely  to  remember. 

That  doomed  valley  might  well  be  on  the  alert.  The  Six 
Nations  had  receded  entirely  from  the  solemn  pledges  of  neu- 


THE     UNEXPECTED     G-UEST.  289 

trality  and,  in  connection  with  Brant,  the  Johnsons,  and  Colonel 
John  Butler,  were  fighting  upon  the  upper  waters  of  the  Susque- 
hanna.  Many  of  the  Tories  from  about  Wintermoot's  Fort  had 
fled  to  them  with  complaints  of  harsh  treatment  from  the  patriot 
Whigs.  In  vain  these  doomed  people  had  petitioned  Congress 
for  help.  Then,  as  now,  Congress  was  slow  to  act,  while  the 
enemy  was  prompt  and  terrible. 

Thus  lay  the  Valley  of  Wyoming  when  our  story  returns 
to  it. 

The  first  signal  of  the  mustering  storm  came  suddenly  one 
afternoon,  about  the  first  of  July,  when  Walter  Butler,  whom 
every  one  had  thought  a  close  prisoner  at  Albany,  appeared  at 
the  head  of  eight  or  ten  mounted  savages,  and,  with  his  young 
Indian  wife  galloping  by  his  side,  swept  up  the  valley  towards 
Wintermoot's  Fort. 

The  very  hardihood  of  this  appearance  among  his  bitterest 
enemies  probably  secured  his  safety,  for,  before  the  astonished 
inhabitants  could  realize  the  amount  of  his  audacity,  and 
while  the  glitter  of  her  rich  Indian  dress  was  before  their  eyes, 
his  cavalcade  thundered  into  the  fort,  and  a  clamorous  shout 
from  those  within  attested  the  satisfaction  with  which  he  waa 
received. 


CHAPTER  5XXYIII. 

THE    UNEXPECTED     GUEST 

A  LONG  wooden  bridge  at  this  time  connects  Wilkesbarre  with 
the  Kingston  side  of  the  Susquehanna  ;  a  spacious  and  most 
excellent  hotel  stands  on  the  sweep  of  the  road  where  it  winds 
over  from  the  former  place,  and  the  engine  whistle  may  be  heard 
shrieking  almost  every  hour,  as  some  train  rashes  fiercely  up  the 

19 


290  MARY      DERWENT. 

valley,  dashing  over  coal-beds,  sweeping  across  the  broad  river, 
at  its  juncture,  and  away  where  the  Indian  war  trail  was  first 
laid  along  the  Lackawanna  ;  but,  in  1718,  there  was  neither 
bridge  nor  hotel,  unless  a  low  log-house,  fronted  by  a  magnificent 
elm,  and  made  of  consequence  by  a  log  stable,  a  huge  hay-stack 
and  a  shingle  roof,  might  be  called  such.  A  public  house  it 
certainly  was  intended  to  be,  for  a  rudely  painted  sign  hung 
groaning  and  creaking  among  the  thick  leaves  of  the  elm,  and 
the  chickens  which  congregated  about  the  haystack  were  always 
seen  to  flutter  and  creep  away  into  hiding-places  whenever  a 
traveller  was  seen  to  emerge  from  the  shaded  road  which  leads 
across  the  Wilkesbarre  mountains,  a  kind  of  timidity  seldom 
observed  at  private  houses,  except  at  the  approach  of  a  travel 
ling  minister  or  a  schoolmaster  who  boards  about. 

There  was  little  of  refinement,  but  everything  essential  to 
comfort,  in  the  interior  of  Aunt  Polly's  tavern,  for  to  that  re 
spected  female  the  log  building  with  its  sign  belonged.  Two 
small  square  rooms,  separated  by  a  board  partition,  were  divided 
off  from  the  kitchen,  one  was  the  dormitory  of  Aunt  Polly  her 
self,  while  the  other,  which  served  the  chance  wayfarer  as  bed 
chamber,  dining  and  sitting-room,  had  the  usual  furniture  of 
splint  chairs,  a  small  looking-glass,  surmounted  by  a  tuft  of  fresh 
asparagus — a  fire-place  filled  with  white-pine  tops,  a  bed  decked 
with  sheets  of  the  whitest  homespun,  and  a  coverlid  of  blue  and 
white  yarn,  woven  in  what  Aunt  Polly  called  orange  quarters,  and 
doors  and  windows. 

Later  in  the  evening  which  witnessed  Walter  Butler's  return, 
a  gentleman  was  impatiently  pacing  this  little  room,  and  more 
than  once  he  opened  the  door  which  led  to  the  kitchen  to  hurry 
Aunt  Polly  in  her  preparations  for  supper.  This  restless  im 
patience  in  her  guest  put  Aunt  Polly  somewhat  out  of  patience. 

"  She  was  doing  as  fast  as  she  could,"  she  said,  "  and  she  did 
hate  to  be  driv." 

Still,  at  each  interruption,  the  good  lady  dipped  an  unfortu 
nate  chicken,  with  more  desperate  energy,  into  the  kettle  of  hot 


THE     UNEXPECTED     GUEST.  291 

water  that  stood  on  the  hearth  before  her,  and  tore  away  the 
dripping  plumage,  handful  after  handful,  with  a  zeal  which  might 
have  satisfied  the  most  hungry  traveller  that  ever  claimed  hospi 
tality  at  her  door. 

An  iron  pot,  filled  with  potatoes,  and  a  tea-kettle,  hung,  like  a 
brace  of  martyrs,  in  the  blazing  fire,  and  everything  was  in  fair 
progress  for  a  comfortable  meal,  when  the  young  man  entered 
the  kitchen,  as  if  weary  of  remaining  alone,  and  began  to  chat 
with  Aunt  Polly,  while  she  dissected  the  unfortunate  fowl,  after 
it  came  out,  clean  and  featherless,  from  the  hot  bath  in  which  she 
had  plunged  it. 

"  I  see  you  keep  everything  clean  and  snug  as  usual,  Aunt 
Polly,"  he  said,  looking  about  the  apartment  where,  however, 
might  be  observed  greater  marks  of  confusion  than  was  common 
with  the  thrifty  old  maid. 

"  Nothing  to  brag  of,"  replied  Polly,  shaking  her  head  and 
looking  at  the  loom  which  stood  in  one  corner  with  a  web  of  rag 
carpeting  rolled  on  the  cloth  beam.  A  quill-wheel  and  a  rickety 
pair  of  swifts  were  crowded  against  the  heavy  posts,  the  one  un- 
banded,  and  the  other  with  a  few  threads  of  tow-yarn  tangled 
among  the  sticks,  and  a  skein  of  cut  rags  falling  heavily  around 
them.  "  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Captain  Butler,  but  you  al'ea 
make  me  fling  everything  to  sixes  and  sevens  when  you  come. 
Now,  I  meant  to  have  wove  a  yard  on  that  are  carpet  aforo 
night — anybody  else  would  have  took  up  with  a  cold  bite  ;  but 
you're  awful  dainty  about  victuals,  captain,  and  al'es  was." 

Well,  never  mind  that,  Polly  ;  you  know  I  am  always  willing 
to  pay  for  what  I  have.  But,  tell  me,  is  there  no  news  stirring 
in  the  valley  ?  I  see  you  have  got  a  new  fort  over  the  river — 
who  commands  there  ?" 

"  Who  but  Edward  Clark,  your  old  schoolmate  ;  though  I 
rather  think  that  there  won't  be  much  watch  kept  up  there  this 
week — the  captain's  got  better  fish  to  fry.  You  haint  forgot 
how  reg'lar  he  went  a  sparking  to  old  mother  Derwent's,  have 
you  ?" 


292  MAKY      DERWENT. 

As  Aunt  Polly  received  no  answer,  she  busied  herself  stirring 
the  simmering  members  of  the  fowl  with  a  large  wooden  spoon, 
while  her  auditor  began  to  pace  the  floor  with  a  brow  that 
grew  darker  and  a  step  that  became  heavier  each  instant. 

The  landlady  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her  face,  and  looked 
rather  inquisitively  at  him. 

"  Why,  what  has  come  over  you  ?"  she  said  ;  "  you  look  as 
black  as  a  thunder-cloud  all  tu  once." 

"  This  week.  Did  you  say  that  Edward  Clark  and  Jane  Der- 
went  were  to  be  married  so  soon  ?" 

"  Yes — they'll  have  a  wedding  on  the  Island  afore  Sunday, 
or  I'll  loose  my  guess." 

"  What  day  and  hour — do  you  know  the  hour  ?" 

"  Why,  no — I  don't  'spose  they're  particular  to  a  minute." 

"  So  the  rebel  dog  thinks  to  have  Jane  Derwent  at  last,  does 
he  1"  exclaimed  Butler,  pausing  angrily  in  his  walk,  and  bending 
his  flushed  brow  on  the  landlady  ;  then  turning  away  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth  : 

"  By  the  Lord  that  made  me,  I  will  spoil  his  fun  this  once  !" 

"  Lard  a  marcy,  how  mad  you  look,"  said  Aunt  Polly.  "  You 
amost  make  my  hair  stand  on  eend — but  the  first  sight  of  you 
was  enough  for  that ;  why,  we  all  thought  you  were  dead  and 
hung,  long  ago." 

"  And  were  rejoiced  at  it,  I  dare  say  ?" 

"  Can't  pretend  to  answer  for  the  men  folks,  not  al'es  knowing 
exactly  where  to  find  'em,  but  for  my  part,  men's  too  scarce  in 
this  region,  for  us  women  folks  to  want  'em  hung." 

"  But  I  dare  say,  your  precious  patriots,  as  they  call  them 
selves,  would  hang  me  high  as  Haman  if  they  had  the  chance, 
which  I  don't  intend  to  give  'em,  though  I  was  fool  enough  to 
come  here." 

"  Why,  they  haven't  any  right  to  touch  you,  captain.  York 
State  laws  ain't  good  for  nothing  here,  are  they  ?" 

"  None,  that  I  would  not  answer  back  with  a  shower  of  bul 
lets,"  answered  Butler,  fiercely  ;  "so,  once  for  all,  keep  quiet 


THE     UNEXPECTED     GUEST.  293 

about  my  being  here,  or  anything  I  have  said  ;  it  will  prove  the 
worse  for  you  if  you  don't." 

"  Why,  how  you  talk — there  ain't  no  mischief  a  brewing  agin 
the  valley,  is  there,  captain  ?  Edward  Clark  would  not  be  per 
suaded  to  leave  the  fort,  if  it  was  to  get  married,  if  he  thought  so." 

Butler  paid  no  attention  to  her  question,  but  made  a  rapid 
succession  of  inquiries  about  the  family  on  Monockonok  Island, 
and  craftily  gathered  from  the  old  maid  a  pretty  accurate  account 
of  the  military  force  now  in  the  valley.  At  last  a  noise  from 
without,  which  Aunt  Polly  evidently  did  not  hear,  made  him 
start  and  listen.  He  took  out  his  watch,  and  hastily  replacing 
it,  muttered  something  in  an  under  tone,  and  left  the  house, 
regardless  of  the  supper  which  he  had  been  so  impatient  for  a 
few  minutes  before. 

"  I  wish  to  gracious,  Sim  White  was  here  ;  I  rather  guess  my 
hay  will  suffer  if  the  captin  feeds  his  own  hoss,"  said  the  old 
maid,  as  the  door  closed  ;  "  the  feller  thinks  no  more  of  a  peck 
of  oats  than  if  it  was  cut  straw.  I  wish  he'd  make  haste  tho', 
the  victuals  is  purty  near  done,  and  I  begin  to  feel  kinder  hungry 
myself.  Oh,  I'd  a'most  forgot — these  Tory  fellers  al'es  want  tea 
— just  to  spite  us,  I  reckon  ;  but  a  tavern  is  a  tavern,  and  while 
my  sign  swings  on  that  are  elm  tree,  travellers  shall  have  just 
what  they  ask  for  when  I've  got  it." 

With  these  words,  Aunt  Polly  opened  a  rude  closet,  took  out 
a  small  tin  canister  containing  the  unpopular  herb,  and  filling 
the  little  round  top,  smoothed  it  off  with  her  finger,  and  "  put 
the  tea  to  drawing."  Then  spreading  a  snowy  table-cloth  in  the 
best  room,  she  placed  thereon  the  nicely  cooked  fowl,  the  smok 
ing  potatoes,  a  plate  of  bread  and  a  ball  of  golden  butter,  and 
gave  the  finishing  touch  to  her  table  by  saucers  of  preserved 
crab-apples  and  wild  plums  placed  on  each  corner.  After  all 
was  ready,  she  seated  herself  by  a  little  waiter,  scarcely  larger 
than  a  good  sized  snuffer-tray,  and  as  she  placed  and  re-placed 
the  milk-cup  and  sugar-bowl,  muttered  her  impatience  for  the 
return  of  her  guest. 


294:  MARY      DEB  WENT. 

"  I  wonder  what  on  arth  keeps  him  so — I  could  a  foddered 
my  whole  stock  afore  this.  Walter  Butler  didn't  use  to  be  so 
long  tending  his  horse  afore  he  eat,  himself.  Dear  me,  the  gravy 
is  gitting  thick  about  the  chickens — the  fried  cabbage  is  stun 
cold,  and  the  tea'll  be  drawn  to  death  !  I  do  wish — oh,  here 
he  comes  I" 

The  old  maid  brightened  as  she  heard  footsteps  coming  through 
the  kitchen,  and  snatching  up  the  tea-pot,  she  began  pouring 
out  the  half  cold  beverage  into  the  little  earthenware  cups  which 
were  only  produced  to  regale  the  Tory  guests  who  graced  her 
house. 

"  Do  come  along,  and  set  to,  captin — your  supper  is  gitting 
stun  cold,"  she  said,  without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  tea-cups. 
"  I've  been  a-waiting  this  ever  so  long." 

"  I  hope  that  I  have  made  no  mistake,  my  good  woman," 
replied  a  strange  voice  from  the  door  in  answer  to  her  hospitable 
invitation  ;  "  I  supposed  this  to  be  a  public  house." 

Aunt  Polly  set  down  the  tea-pot,  her  hands  dropped  to  her 
lap,  and  her  eyes  grew  large  with  astonishment ;  a  tall,  stately 
gentleman  stood  in  the  door-way,  where  she  had  last  seen  her 
younger  guest ;  he  was  evidently  of  higher  rank,  and  of  far 
more  dignified  and  lofty  carriage  than  any  person  who  had  ever 
before  sought  the  shelter  of  her  roof.  His  hat  was  in  his  hand, 
and  a  few  grey  hairs  silvered  the  dark  locks  about  his  high  fore 
head  The  expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  stern  decision  ; 
yet  there  was  a  softness  in  his  smile  as  he  observed  the  astonished 
landlady,  which  made  it  almost  winning.  He  advanced  into  the 
room  with  a  courteous  ease,  which  Aunt  Polly  could  feel  much 
better  than  understand. 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  mistaken — at  least,  you  will  not  refuse  me 
a  portion  of  this  tempting  dish  ?"  he  said,  laying  his  hat  and 
riding-whip  on  the  bed. 

By  this  time,  Aunt  Polly  had  recovered  her  speech.  "  There 
is  no  mistake,  this  is  a  tavern  that  advertises  feed  for  man  and 
boss,  and  does  all  it  promises,"  she  said,  with  an  accession  of 


THE     UNEXPECTED     GUEST.  295 

pompous  hospitality  ;  "  so  set  by,  and  help  yourself  to  such  as 
there  is.  I've  kept  public-house  here  these  ten  years.  Don't 
stand  to  be  axed,  if  you  want  supper — it's  all  ready,  I  began  to 
think  that  I  had  cooked  it  for  nothing.  You  take  tea  I  s'pose 
from  the  looks  of  your  coat." 

The  stranger  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  took  the  prof 
fered  cup. 

"  You  have  prepared  for  other  guests  ?"  he  observed,  as  she 
arose  to  get  another  cup  and  saucer  from  the  closet. 

"  Yes — Captin  Butler  will  be  in  purty  soon,  I  reckon  ;  but 
there's  no  calculating  when." 

The  stranger  looked  up  with  a  degree  of  interest  when  the 
name  was  pronounced.  "Is  it  of  Captain  Walter  Butler  you 
speak  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,  his  name's  Walter,  and  an  awful  smart  feller  he  is,  too — 
but  the  worst  sort  of  a  Tory.  Do  you  know  him  ?  if  I  may  be 
so  bold." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  how  he  escaped  from  confinement,  and  by 
what  means  he  reached  the  valley  ?"  inquired  the  stranger, 
without  seeming  to  heed  her  question. 

Aunt  Polly  broke  into  a  crackling  laugh,  one  of  those  sharp 
cachinnations  which  sometimes  frightened  her  poultry  from  the 
roost. 

"How  did  he  escape?  I  only  wondered  how  anybody  man 
aged  to  keep  him.  Why,  he's  a  fox,  an  eel,  a  weasel.  Of  all 
them  Hudson  and  Mohawk  Valley  chaps  that  hive  at  Winter- 
moots'  Fort,  he's  the  cutest.  They  say  he's  made  lots  of  money 
lately  in  making  believe  he  married  one  of  the  handsomest  little 
squaws  that  you  every  sot  eyes  on  ;  some  say  that  he  is  married  in 
rale  downright  arnest  ;  but  I  don't  believe  all  I  hear — it's  been 
a  kind  of  Indian  scrape — a  jumping  over  the  broomstick  I  s'pose. 
He  rode  through  the  valley  with  her  this  arternoon  as  bold  as  a 
lion,  followed  by  a  lot  of  wild  Injuns.  The  hull  biling  on  'em 
may  be  a  coming  down  on  us  for  all  I  know." 

11  But  the  mother  of  this  Indian  girl — is  she  in  the  valley  ?" 


MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  Catharine  Montour  ?  is  that  the  person  you  want  to  ask 
about  ?  'cause  if  it  is,  I  saw  that  identical  woman  once,  and  a 
rale,  downright  lady  she  is.  Fve  got  the  gold  guinea  she  gave 
me  in  my  puss  yet." 

"  And  you  saw  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  these  two  eyes,  and  that's  more  than  most  folks 
can  say.  She  came  out  on  Gineral  Washington  and  I — that's 
my  hoss,  sir,  not  the  commander-in-chief— jest  as  the  angel  stood 
afore  Balaam.  At  first,  I  raly  thought  that  I  was  struck  dum, 
and  the  gineral'd  have  to  speak  for  me,  whether  or  no." 

"  But  the  lady — how  did  she  look  ?  changed,  older — was  she 
beautiful  ?"  cried  the  man,  while  a  quiver  of  agitation  ran 
through  his  voice — up  to  this  time  so  calm  and  measured. 

"  Harnsome  ?  I  suppose  you  mean  by  all  that.  Wai,  yes, 
I  should  carlculate  that  a'most  any  one  would  a  called  that  lady 
harnsome  enough  for  anything.  She  wasn't  so  young  mebby 
as  she  had  been  ;  but,  marcy  on  us,  no  queen  on  her  throne  ever 
looked  grander." 

"  And  did  she  seem  happy — content  ?" 

"  Wai,  that's  difficult  saying  ;  wimmen  don't  tell  out  all  that's 
in  their  bosoms  at  once.  She  looked  sort  of  anxious,  but  there's  no 
telling  what  it  was  about  ;  but  if  you  stay  in  these  parts  long, 
and  my  out-room  is  empty  if  you  want  it — you'll  likely  as  not 
see  her  yourself :  when  the  young  Injun  gal  is  here,  Catharine 
Montour  can't  be  far  off.  The  hull  tribe  camped  under  Camp 
bell's  Ledge  a  year  or  two  ago,  and  held  a  grand  council  with 
the  Injuns  about  the  Wind  Gap.  I  hope  they  won't  come  for 
anything  wuss  the  next  time." 

"  And  did  you  converse  with  this  lady  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  reckon  what  was  said  atween  us  might  a  been  con 
sidered  convarsing.  She  sent  a  message  to  Mary  Derwent,  and 
I  carried  it.  The  talk  was  purty  much  all  about  that." 

"  And  this  is  all  you  can  tell  me  of  her  ?"  said  the  stranger, 
in  a  tone  of  bitter  disappointment,  which  interested  the  old  maid 
more  and  more  in  his  behalf. 


THE     UNEXPECTED     GUEST.  297 

"  It  is  all  I  know,  sartinly  ;  but  if  you  want  to  hear  more 
about  her,  the  Injun  missionary  '11  tell  you  all  about  her.  He 
was  up  to  the  camp  when  they  held  that  council-fire,  and  talked 
with  her  face  to  face  " 

"  And  where  can  this  missionary  be  found  ?" 

"  Well,  jest  now,  that  would  be  hard  to  say  ;  he's  been  in  the 
valley,  off  and  on,  all  last  year  ;  but  a  month  or  two  ago,  he  went 
away  to  Philadelphia  to  tell  the  Congress  and  Gineral  Washington 
to  send  our  own  sojers  back  to  take  care  of  us,  if  they  can't  afford 
nothing  more.  But  he  ought  to  be  back  about  this  time,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you  found  him  at  his  old  place,  at  Toby's 
Eddy.  He's  got  a  cabin  down  there,  in  the  very  spot  where  the 
rattlesnake  scared  off  the  Injuns,  when  they  went  to  kill  Mr. 
Zin— Zin— Zin" 

"  Zinzendorf,  probably  that  is  the  name,"  said  the  traveller, 
smiling  gravely.  "  I  remember  the  circumstance.  So,  you  think 
it  possible  that  I  might  find  the  minister  at  Toby's  Eddy  ?  Can 
you  tell  me  what  direction  to  take  ?" 

"  Keep  on  down  stream  till  you  come  to  a  spot  where  the  river 
gives  a  bend  like  this."  Here  Aunt  Polly  bent  her  elbow  into  an 
angle,  which  she  endeavored  in  vain  to  torture  into  a  curve 
which  should  describe  that  magnificent  crescent  formed  in  the 
banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  and  known  as  Toby's  Eddy. 

"  When  you  reach  the  spot,  you'll  know  it  by  the  great  syca 
more  trees  with  their  white  balls  ;  ask  somebody  to  show  you  the 
missionary's  cabin.  You  couldn't  miss  on  it  if  you  tried." 

The  stranger  thanked  her  gravely,  and  laying  a  piece  of  gold 
on  the  table,  went  out  quietly  as  he  had  entered. 

Aunt  Polly  started  up,  and  going  to  the  back  door,  cried 
vigorously  across  the  bed  of  young  cabbages  for  Sim  White,  the 
hired  man  who  had  lived  with  her  all  winter,  to  hurry  up  and 
bring  out  the  gentleman's  critter.  But  while  the  words  were  on 
her  lips,  she  heard  the  tramp  of  a  horse,  and  running  to  the  front 
window  saw  her  guest  riding  at  a  brisk  pace  down  the  river. 

"  Well,  if  this  don't  beat  all  creation,"  said  the  old  maid,  lay- 


298  MAKYDERWENT. 

ing  the  guinea  in  her  palm,  and  examining  it  on  both  sides  with 
delight.  "  I  wonder  who  on  arth  he  can  be  1" 

Muttering  these  words,  the  landlady  drew  forth  her  shot-bag 
from  a  corner  cupboard,  and  after  examining  the  gold  pieces  al 
ready  there,  with  loving  curiosity,  laid  her  new  treasure  beside  it. 

"  Now,  there's  luck  in  that,"  she  said,  tying  the  shot-bag  up, 
with  a  grim  smile.  "  I  wonder  what'll  come  next.  It  never 
rains  but  it  storms.  The  gold  has  come,  and  now  I  must  take 
a  run  on  something  else.  I  wonder  where  Sim  White  has  hid 
himself.  If  Captain  Butler  don't  want  this  ere  chicken,  I  don't 
know  any  one  that  has  a  better  right  to  it  than  Sim." 

As  she  was  covering  the  dish  to  set  it  down  by  the  fire,  Aunt 
Polly  happened  to  glance  towards  the  back  window,  and  there, 
much  to  her  surprise,  she  saw  the  face  of  her  hired  man,  Sim 
White,  peering  curiously  in. 

"  There  now,  if  that  ain't  too  much,"  she  said,  flushing  to  the 
eyes  with  the  force  of  a  new  discovery  that  had  just  dawned 
upon  her.  "If  the  critter  ain't  getting  jealous  arter  all;  well, 
now,  I  never  did!  He  thought  that  grand-looking  gentleman  a 
beau  of  mine.  Just  as  likely  as  not — well,  I  won't  let  him  know 
that  I  ketched  him  peaking,  anyhow." 

"  Aunt  Polly  busied  herself  about  the  fire — acting  upon  this 
generous  resolution,  till  the  door  softly  opened,  and  Sim  thrust 
his  head  cautiously  in,  and  gave  a  sharp  look  around  the  room. 
Aunt  Polly  smiled  with  grim  satisfaction,  and  began  to  punch 
the  fire  vigorously,  though  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
cast  side  glances  towards  the  door  all  the  time." 

"Where  is  he? — hush!  speak  in  a  whisper — where  is  the 
eternal  rascal  gone  to  ?  I've  got  a  dozen  stout  fellows  out  in 
the  yard,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  scythes  and  pitchforks,  and  a 
beautiful  halter  hitched  to  a  beam  in  the  barn,  all  ready.  I 
shan't  trust  to  the  law  this  time;  it  ain't  worth  a  tow-string,  or 
his  hash'd  a'  been  settled  long  ago — come,  speak  out,  where  is 
he?" 

Now,  Aunt  Polly  was  rather  pleased  with  the  idea  of  Sim's 


THE     UNEXPECTED     GUEST.  299 

jealousy;  but  when  it  took  this  ferocious  form,  and  she  thought 
of  her  guests  being  strung  up  one  by  one  to  a  beam  in  her  own 
barn,  the  whole  thing  began  to  take  a  form  that  she  did  not 
quite  relish. 

"  Mr.  White,"  said  she,  with  great  dignity,  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  Can't  I  speak  to  a  traveller  in  my  own  kitchen,  but  you 
must  talk  of  scythes  and  pitchforks,  and  halters,  too  ?" 

Sim  did  not  answer,  but  went  peering  about  the  kitchen, 
opening  closets  and  looking  under  tables,  until  he  landed  in  the 
out  room,  where  his  search  was  continued  still  more  vigilantly. 
At  last,  he  opened  the  door  of  Aunt  Polly's  bed-room  and 
stepped  in.  The  white  valance  in  front  of  the  bed  was  in 
motion;  his  eyes  began  to  glisten.  He  had  no  doubt  that  the 
object  of  his  search  was  there.  Daintily  lifting  the  edge  of  the 
valance  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  he  stooped  and  looked 
under.  It  was  only  to  meet  the  glaring  green  eyes  of  Aunt 
Polly's  cat,  who  had  inadvertently  disturbed  the  valance,  and 
thus  led  Sim  White  into  a  dilemma;  for  as  he  dropped  the  mus 
lin,  and  was  about  to  rise  from  his  stooping  position,  Aunt  Polly 
stood  before  him,  towering  in  wrathful  indignation. 

"  Mr.  Simon  White,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  find  out  if  that  etarnal  scamp  is  hid  away  in  this 
'ere  house,  or  not,"  answered  Sim,  looking  desperately  around 
the  little  apartment.  "  He's  my  prisoner.  I  took  him  myself  at 
German  Flats,  just  'afore  I  come  here  to  live.  If  them  fools  in 
Albany  have  let  him  loose,  I'll  tighten  him  up  again  in  short 
order." 

"  Who  on  arth  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  Why,  that  Butler,  to  be  sure;  only  let  me  lay  my  hands 
on  him,  that's  all." 

"  Why,  Captain  Butler  went  off  an  hour  ago,"  said  Polly,  in 
accents  of  deep  mortification. 

"  Which  way  ?" 

"  I  don't  know;  he  slid  off  without  saying  good  bye  !  I  was 
just  saving  his  supper  for  you." 


300  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"And  Fve  had  all  this  trouble  for  nothing,  consarn  the 
fellow  I" 

"  Come  now,  ain't  you  a'rnost  ready  to  go  out  ?"  said  Aunt 
Polly,  sliding  up  to  the  bed,  where  her  nightcap  crowned 
one  of  the  posts.  Snatching  it  off  and  dexterously  concealing  it 
behind  her,  she  muttering  to  herself,  "  I  wouldn't  a'  cared  so 
much,  if  it  had  only  had  a  ruffled  border."  Then  she  added, 
rather  tartly,  "  Come,  the  chicken'll  be  stun  cold." 

Sim  turned  and  followed  her  to  the  kitchen.  He  was  terribly 
disappointed  at  the  failure  of  his  attempt  to  regain  his  prisoner, 
and  sent  away  the  farmers  who  had  gladly  rallied  to  his  aid, 
with  a  crest-fallen  look,  which  was  more  than  equalled  by  Aunt 
Polly's  downcast  countenance.  She  was  unusually  cross  all  the 
evening,  poured  any  quantity  of  water  into  the  teapot,  set  away 
the  preserves  before  Sim  had  tasted  them,  and  altogether  acted 
in  a  very  unaccountable  manner  indeed. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

THE     FIRST     SKIRMISH. 

THE  vague  rumors  that  had  reached  the  inhabitants  of 
Wyoming,  no  one  could  exactly  tell  how,  filling  each  house 
hold  with  alarm,  were  not  without  foundation.  A  force  of 
eleven  hundred  strong,  under  the  command  of  Colonel  John 
Butler,  consisting  of  Tory  Rangers,  a  detachment  of  Johnson's 
Royal  Greens,  and  six  hundred  savages,  picked  warriors  from 
the  Shawnee  and  Seneca  tribes,  had  already  crossed  Geuesee 
county.  They  had  embarked  from  Tioga  Point  in  canoes, 
which  were  abandoned  at  the  mouth  of  Bowman's  Creek,  where 
the  whole  body  was  encamped  on  the  second  of  July. 

Queen  Esther,  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  and  two  or  three  Seneca  chiefs. 


THE     FIKST     SKIRMISH.  301 

commanded  the  savage  forces.  Catharine  Montour  was  in  the 
army,  for  she  had  been  warned  by  one  of  the  Indians  who  had 
aided  in  Walter  Butler's  escape  from  Albany,  that  he  had  pro 
ceeded  at  once  to  Wyoming  with  his  wife,  and  would  await  the 
appearance  of  his  father  at  Wintermoot's  Fort. 

The  hopes  of  seeing  her  child,  and  a  harassing  terror  lest 
that  angel  girl  on  Monockonock  Island  might  come  to  harm  in 
the  savage  warfare  impending  over  the  valley,  had  forced  her 
into  scenes  from  which  her  very  soul  revolted,  and  she  opened 
her  eyes  with  terror  as  each  day  carried  the  fearful  warwhoop  of 
her  tribe  nearer  and  nearer  that  peaceful  region. 

From  the  encampment  at  Bowman's  Creek  scouts  were  sent 
forwards,  and  a  small  detachment  of  warriors  swept  down  the 
river  in  the  night,  headed  by  Queen  Esther's  youngest  son,  a 
handsome  brave,  who,  eager  to  earn  the  first  eagle's  plume  in  the 
coming  fight — having  won  this  privilege  from  the  grim  queen 
and  his  lofty  brother — set  forth  on  his  errand  of  blood. 

Like  a  flock  of  red  birds  on  the  water,  the  chief  and  his  war 
riors  floated  down  the  Susquehanna,  each  with  a  rifle  at  his 
feet,  and  a  tomahawk  or  a  sharp  knife  glittering  in  his  girdle. 

Their  persons  glowed  with  war  paint ;  their  sinewy  arms  bent 
to  the  oars.  Now  and  then,  as  they  passed  through  the  sloping 
mountains,  a  faint  whoop  broke  on  the  waters,  betraying  their 
impatience  for  contest. 

But  as  they  reached  the  rocky  jaws  of  the  Susquehanna, 
all  was  still  as  death  ;  no  flock  of  birds  ever  flitted  over  that 
stream  more  silently.  About  a  mile  above  Fort  Jenkins,  they 
took  to  the  shore.  This  fort  was  in  the  hands  of  the  patriots, 
and  the  chief  thirsted  to  strike  a  leading  blow  in  the  contest. 
Instead  of  proceeding  to  Wintermoot's  Fort,  he  drew  his  war 
riors  from  the  river,  and  clearing  the  stockades  like  a  pack  of 
wolves,  took  the  fort  by  surprise. 

But  brave  men  lay  waiting  behind  those  rough  logs — old  men 
of  cool  courage  and  nerves  of  iron.  Three  of  their  number  fell 
dead  in  front  of  the  fort,  where,  unconscious  of  danger,  they  had 


302  MAKY      DERWENT. 

been  conversing  in  the  starlight.  The  savages  rushed  on  to 
complete  their  work,  but  they  were  met  with  a  blaze  of  musketry, 
so  sudden  and  furious,  that  half  a  dozen  stalwart  forms  fell  upon 
the  men  they  had  murdered.  Then  the  crack  of  a  single  rifle — a 
shrill  cry — the  youngest  son  of  Queen  Esther  leaped  into  the  air, 
and  fell  dead  upon  the  sward  he  had  been  so  eager  to  bathe  with 
blood. 

The  skirmish  had  not  lasted  half  an  hour,  when  that  band  of 
savages  retreated,  under  shelter  of  the  night,  and  laying  the 
body  of  their  chief  in  a  canoe,  floated  down  the  river  with  a  low, 
monotonous  death-chant,  which  was  lost  in  the  deep  solitude  of 
the  woods.  When  they  came  opposite  Wintermoot's,  they  again 
lifted  their  chief  and  bore  him  among  them  into  the  fort,  still 
wailing  out  that  mournful  death-song. 

The  garrison  was  aroused  ;  armed  men  came  out  and  bore  the 
body  of  the  dead  brave  into  the  inclosure. 

Tahmeroo,  who  lay  awake,  waiting  the  return  of  her  husband, 
heard  the  death  wail  of  her  tribe,  and  followed  the  sound,  pale 
with  apprehension.  A  group  of  warriors  sat  upon  the  earth, 
with  their  faces  buried  in  their  robes  ;  the  death-song  was  hushed, 
but  the  silence  of  those  stout  hearts  was  more  solemn  even  than 
the  mournful  voices  had  been. 

In  the  centre  of  this  group  she  saw  the  prostrate  form  of  a 
chief,  with  his  gorgeous  war  robes  lying  in  heavy  masses  around 
him.  The  Indian  girl  held  her  breath  and  crept  forwards,  looking 
fearfully  down  into  the  face  of  the  dead.  It  was  her  father's 
brother  1  She  asked  no  questions,  but  crouched  down  on  the 
earth  among  those  silent  warriors,  and  was  still  as  the  dead  she 
mourned. 

After  a  little,  a  young  warrior  rose  from  the  circle  and  went 
out ;  no  one  spoke,  no  one  looked  up  ;  but  they  all  knew  that 
he  was  departing  to  bear  to  Queen  Esther  tidings  of  her  son's 
death. 

Slowly  and  with  mournful  steadiness,  the  lone  savage  crept  up 
the  river  ;  he  broke  the  profound  stillness  of  the  mountains  with 


THE     WEDDING     PRESENT.  303 

the  death-cry,  as  he  passed  along  ;  the  lonely  whippowill  an 
swered  him  from  the  woods  ;  and  between  the  pauses  of  its  mel 
ancholy  wail,  the  sleepless  owl  hooted  him  for  not  dying  instead 
of  his  chief.  It  was  daybreak  when  he  reached  the  encampment 
at  Bowman's  Creek.  Queen  Esther  was  lying  awake  in  her  tent ; 
indeed  no  one  could  tell  if  the  old  woman  ever  slept ;  come  upon 
her  at  any  time  in  the  night — no  matter  with  what  tidings — and 
she  was  sure  to  meet  you  with  those  vigilant  glances  that  seemed 
never  to  relax  an  instant.  When  the  warrior  lifted  the  mat  from 
her  tent,  and  stood  so  solemnly  in  the  light  of  her  dying  fire, 
she  prolonged  that  look,  till  it  seemed  to  cut  into  him  like 
steel.  All  at  once  a  gleam  of  cruel  trouble  shot  into  the  glance  ; 
those  stony  features  moved,  and  a  spasm  of  agony  locked  them 
closer  than  before.  The  smoky  light  could  not  alone  have  left 
those  shadows  on  her  face  ;  they  were  the  color  of  ashes. 

He  laid  the  tomahawk,  red  at  the  edge,  the  keen  scalping 
knife,  and  the  rifle  that  had  belonged  to  her  son  down  at  the 
old  queen's  feet.  There  was  a  rustle  under  her  robes,  as  of  dry 
boughs  in  winter,  and  her  head  drooped  slowly  forwards  on  her 
bosom,  while  her  fierce  eyes  gleamed  down  on  the  implements  of 
death  colder  and  sharper  than  they. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

THE     WEDDING     PRESENT. 

THE  morning  after  the  events  described  in  the  preceding  chap 
ter,  Aunt  Polly  rose  at  an  early  hour  and  went  rigorously  about 
her  multifarious  duties,  preparing  breakfast  for  herself  and  Sim, 
helping  to  milk  the  cows,  and  setting  the  house  in  order  gene 
rally. 

Thoughts  of  much  importance  were  evidently  weighing  with 


304:  MARY      DERWENT. 

great  force  upon  Aunt  Polly's  mind,  for  all  through  breakfast 
she  was  very  absent-minded,  though  her  manner  to  Sim  was  un 
usually  gentle — even  bordering  on  tenderness. 

"  Now,  Sim,"  she  said,  when  he  rose  from  the  table,  "  have 
Gineral  Washington  saddled  by  the  time  I  get  the  dishes  washed, 
for  Pm  going  right  over  to  the  island." 

"  So,  Jane  Derwent  and  Clark  are  really  goin'  to  be  married  ?" 

"  And  it's  the  best  thing  for  'em  !  When  a  man  has  made  up 
his  mind  to  ask  a  woman  to  have  him,  what's  the  use  of  his  put 
ting  it  off  till  the  Day  of  Judgment  ?  He  may  as  well  speak  up 
at  once."  , 

Sim  assented  with  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head  ;  and  with  his 
thoughts  reverting  to  the  fickle  Betsy,  remarked  sententiously, 
that  women  were  onsartin  creeturs. 

"  Some  on  'em,"  replied  Aunt  Polly,  "  but  not  all  !  I  like  a 
woman  that  can  make  up  her  own  mind  ;  but  just  mind  this,  Mr. 
White,  if  a  man  want's  a  wife  that's  good  for  anything,  he  mustn't 
marry  a  little  fool  of  fifteen  or  sixteen — no  gal  is  fit  to  get  mar 
ried  under  thirty-five." 

Sim  nodded  his  head. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  my  settin'  out,  Sim  ?  If  it  hasn't  been  used 
long  afore  this,  it  wasn't  for  want  of  offers." 

Sim  never  had  seen  this  wonderful  setting  out,  and  Aunt  Polly 
promised  to  show  it  to  him  at  some  future  time.  Finally,  he 
sauntered  away  about  his  work,  and  Aunt  Polly  began  clearing 
up  the  table.  When  everything  was  in  order,  she  sat  down 
before  the  loom,  in  which  was  the  unfinished  rag  carpet  that  she 
had  promised  to  Jane  Derwent  as  a  wedding  present.  She  un 
rolled  from  the  ponderous  beam  the  yards  which  were  completed 
and  looked  at  them  admiringly. 

"There  never  was  a  neater  carpet,"  she  said,  "never  ;  that 
orange  in  the  warp  is  as  bright  as  a  guinea,  and  I  never  see  a 
purtier  blue.  I  don't  believe,  arter  all,  it  would  fit  any  room  in 
Edward  Clark's  new  house,  and  I  don't  see  what  Jane  wants  of 
it  ;  young  folks  shouldn't  begin  life  by  being  extravagant." 


THE     WEDDING     PRESENT.  305 

She  folded  the  carpet  slowly  up,  regarding  it  with  covetous 
eyes. 

"  I  guess,"  she  continued,  slowly,  "  Pll  look  out  a  counterpane 
for  her  ;  she'll  like  it  just  as  well,  and  it's  a  better  wedding  pre 
sent  ;  folks  can  get  along  without  a  carpet,  but  they  must  have 
bed  kiverin'." 

She  went  up  to  a  spare  chamber,  and  opened  the  chest  of 
drawers  in  which  were  safely  packed  the  various  articles  apper 
taining  to  her  own  much-lauded  "  setting  out."  There  were  piles 
of  linen  and  bed-clothes,  all  getting  yellow  from  disuse  ;  from  the 
latter  she  selected  a  blue  and  white  yarn  counterpane,  and  spread 
it  over  the  bed. 

"  Wai,  that  is  dreadful  purty  1  I  kinder  hate  to  part  with  it  ; 
mother  helped  me  make  it,  and  I  don't  feel  as  if  'twould  be  ex 
actly  right  to  give  it  away.  I'll  give  Janey  a  pair  of  sheets  and 
ruffled  pillow-cases  instead." 

She  took  out  the  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  smoothing  down  the 
ruffles  and  admiring  their  fineness.  They  looked  more  elegant 
than  ever,  and  Aunt  Polly  decided  that  the  sheets  alone  would 
be  present  enough,  so  she  refolded  the  pillow-cases  and  put  them 
back  in  the  drawer,  where  they  had  formerly  reposed.  Still  she 
was  not  satisfied,  and  wavered  a  long  time  between  a  woollen 
blanket  and  the  sheets  ;  but  Jane's  bridal  stock  was  doomed  to 
want  both.  Aunt  Polly's  eye  fell  upon  a  roll  of  articles  which 
seemed  intended  for  the  decoration  of  a  baby's  cradle  ;  even  in 
her  chaste  solitude,  the  old  maid  fingered  them  -with  decorous 
hesitation. 

She  unrolled  the  bundle  and  took  up  two  patchwork  quilts 
exactly  alike,  and  pieced  from  gorgeous  scraps  of  calico  by  her 
own  fair  hands.  She  compared  and  measured  them,  to  see  that 
there  was  no  difference,  and  finally  chose  the  one  that  proved  a 
fraction  of  an  inch  narrower  than  the  other. 

"  It's  big  enough,"  she  muttered,  absently  ;  "  it'll  cover  a  child 
a  year  old,  and  that's  as  much  as  any  one  could  reasonably  ask 

for"  20 


306  MAEY      DEKWENT. 

Having  made  her  decision,  she  seemed  more  at  ease  in  her 
mind,  laid  the  other  things  carefully  away,  sprinkled  fresh  laven 
der  over  them,  and  turned  the  key  once  more  upon  her  treasures, 
taking  up  the  quilt  with  a  jerk  and  hastening  down  stairs,  as  if 
she  feared  to  remain  longer,  lest  she  should  lock  that  up  too. 

Before  Sim  brought  General  Washington  out  of  the  barn,  Aunt 
Polly  was  in  readiness.  She  had  heroically  picked  her  finest  bell- 
necked  squash,  and  stood  on  the  stoop  in  front  of  the  house,  her 
monstrous  poke  bonnet  sitting  up  on  her  head,  with  a  defiant  air, 
and  grasping  in  her  hand  that  enormous  vegetable,  which  might 
have  been  scooped  out  as  a  drinking-cup  for  one  of  the  giants 
of  the  olden  time. 

At  length  Sim  appeared,  leading  the  old  white  horse  up  to  the 
stump  which  served  as  a  mounting-block,  on  which  Aunt  Polly 
established  herself,  with  her  skirts  held  closely  about  her,  as  if 
she  were  preparing  for  a  dive. 

"  Gineral  Washington  looks  like  a  picter,"  she  said,  regarding 
the  old  horse  admiringly.  "  Wai,  I  always  did  say,  Sim  White, 
that  you  could  curry  a  horse  better  than  any  other  man  in  Wy 
oming  ;  why,  the  old  feller  shines  like  a  looking-glass  ;  I  can't 
bear  a  man  that  is  careless  with  a  horse  ;  I  wouldn't  marry  him 
if  he  had  ten  bags  of  golden  guineas,  for  if  he  can't  treat  a  dumb 
creetnr  well,  what  would  he  do  to  a  wife." 

"Are  you  going  to  Mother  Derwent's  right  off?"  Sim  asked, 
somewhat  heedless  of  Aunt  Polly's  remark. 

"  Yes,  I  am  ;  I  want  to  see  that  they've  got  everything  all 
right.  Now,  make  the  Gineral  side  up,  and  help  me  on." 

The  old  maid  rested  one  hand  on  the  horn  of  the  saddle  and 
the  other  upon  Sim's  shoulder,  who  put  his  stalwart  arm  about 
her  waist,  and  before  she  could  make  any  resistance,  if  she  had 
felt  so  inclined,  lifted  her  to  her  seat. 

"Wai,  if  I  ever  !"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly,  though  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  worked  with  suppressed  pleasure.  "  I  never 
did  see  such  a  man — aint  you  ashamed — get  away  now — suppos 
ing  anybody  had  come  by  and  seen  you  1* 


THE     WEDDING     PRESENT.  307 

"  You  see  I  couldn't  help  it,  Aunt  Polly." 

"  Aunt  Polly  I"  shrieked  the  old  maid,  in  anger  and  defiance. 
"  Miss  Carter,  ef  you  please — that's  my  name  !  You're  a  man 
nerly  feller,  aint  you  ?  Pretty  age  you  are,  to  be  calling  me 
such  a  name  !  Get  away  with  you,  and  if  that  garden  aint  all 
weeded  afore  I  get  back,  you  needn't  expect  many  good  words 
from  me." 

"  Now,  don't  get  into  a  passion,"  said  Sim,  either  really  anx 
ious  to  mollify  her,  or  impelled  by  a  desire  to  escape  his  task  ; 
"  I  didn't  mean  no  harm  ;  the  boys  and  gals  call  you  so." 

"  Wai,  you  aint  a  boy,  nor  a  gal  neither  ;  there's  grey  in  your 
hair,  plain  enough  to  be  seen  !" 

"  Now,  don't  be  mad,"  said  Sim,  catching  hold  of  her  bridle, 
as  she  manifested  some  intention  of  riding  away  ;  "  I'll  never  let 
my  tongue  slip  again  ;  come,  Miss  Carter  I" 

The  old  maid  -put  "her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said  with 
her  blandest  smile  : 

"  Put  the  squash  in  my  lap,  Sim,  and  hang  the  bundle  on  the 
horn  ;  you  may  call  me  Polly — I  don't  mind  that,  though  I 
don't  know,"  she  added,  with  virtuous  reflection,  "  whether  it's 
just  the  thing  afore  people  are  married." 

"  It  can't  do  no  hurt,"  returned  Sim,  sagely  turning  his  tobacco 
over  in  his  mouth,  "  even  if  they  don't  intend  to  get  married." 

"  Yes  it  can  1"  retorted  the  spinster.  "  No  man  shall  ever 
call  me  Polly  that  don't  want  to  marry  me  right  out,  now,  I  tell 
you  1" 

Sim  retreated  a  little,  and  did  not  exhibit  that  eagerness  to 
pronounce  the  euphonious  syllable  which  Aunt  Polly  seemed  to 
expect,  and  she  chirruped  to  General  Washington  with  renewed 
displeasure. 

"  Are  you  a-coming  up  to  the  wedding  ?"  she  asked,  sharply. 
•  "  I  s'pose  so  ;  Edward  Clark  wanted  me  to  play  the  fiddle  for 
them  to  dance  a  little." 

"  Wai,  I  jest  wish  you  wouldn't  go— it  makes  it  very  unplea 
sant  for  me." 


308  MARY      DERWElfcT. 

"  Why  on  arth  shouldn't  I  go,  Miss  Carter  ?" 

"  They  all  laugh  at  me  so,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  with  interesting 
confusion. 

"  What  do  they  laugh  at  you  for — 'cause  I  choose  to  fiddle  ?" 

"  Your  actions,  I  suppose,"  she  replied,  indignantly, ;  "  'tain't 
likely  I've  told  'em  all  the  things  you've  said  to  me.  If  I  had,  I 
know  my  friends  would  insist  on  my  settling  things  right  off — 
but  I'm  hard  to  coax,  very  hard,  Sim." 

Her  hand  went  down  on  to  his  arm  again,  and  this  time 
Sim  rather  took  it  of  his  own  accord. 

"  Are  you ?"  he  said,  doubtfully  ;  "I  guess  not  very  hard — be 
you,  Aun— Polly  ?" 

"  Oh,  Sim,  you  shouldn't  have  spoke  out  so  sudden — women  is 
sensative  creeturs.  Wai,  I  don't  know  ;  I  wouldn't  say  yes  to 
any  other  man,  as  plenty  of  'em  could  tell  you  from  experience  ; 
but  since  it's  you,  Sim,  there,  jest  let  out  that  stirrup-leather  a 
trifle." 

She  gathered  the  skirts  decorously  around  her  feet  while  Sim 
performed  this  duty,  and  rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  in 
settling  herself  again.  Sim  looked  a  little  puzzled,  and  somewhat 
unappreciative  of  the  honor  Aunt  Polly  had  bestowed  upon  him  ; 
but  he  passed  it  off  with  better  grace  than  could  have  been 
expected,  and  even  called  her  outright  by  her  baptismal  ap 
pellation. 

"  I'm  goin'  now,"  said  the  old  maid,  crimsoning  with  delight. 
"  I  shall  have  to  get  some  of  the  gals  to  come  and  stay  a  while 
with  me.  It  wouldn't  be  proper  for  us  to  be  alone  in  the  house, 
you  know.  I  guess  we'll  have  to  hurry  up  things,  too,  on  their 
account ;  for  they  can't  none  of  'em  stay  away  from  home  long. 
Good  bye,  Sim  ;  never  mind  the  garding — good  bye.  Get  up, 
Gineral  Washington.  Come  over  early,  Sim — and  oh,  you'll 
find  some  new  gingerbread  in  the  stone  crock.  I've  put  out  a 
nice  dinner  for  you.  Good  bye,  Sim." 

She  rode  off,  and  left  Sim  standing  in  the  road  buried  in  deep 
thought. 


THE     BEDDING     PRESENT.  309 

"  Wai,"  he  said  at  length,  putting  a  fresh  morsel  of  tobacco 
in  his  mouth,  and  speaking  aloud,  "  she  seems  to  think  it's  all 
settled;  and  I  don't  know  as  I  much  mind  either  way.  I'd  kind 
o'  like  to  show  Betsy  Willets,  too,  that  I  don't  care  a  rush  for 
her  marryin'  Jim  Davis — consarn  her!  The  old  maid's  worth 
having  any  way;  this  is  just  as  good  a  farm  as  there  is  in  all 
Wyoming,  and  the  tavern  stand  ain't  so  bad  as  it  might  be.  A 
feller  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse.  Besides,  'tain't  manners, 
dad  used  to  say,  to  look  a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth — so,  if  she's 
suited,  let  it  go." 

Sim  gave  his  head  a  philosophical  shake  and  turned  towards 
the  barn,  whistling  Yankee  Doodle  as  he  went.  There  were  a 
few  tremulous  variations  now  and  then,  which  threatened  to 
subside  into  Old  Hundred,  as  an  image  of  the  faithless  Betsy 
would  present  itself;  but  Sim  solaced  his  mind  by  glancing  about 
the  neat,  thrifty-looking  premises,  and  fell  to  whistling  harder 
than  before,  conscientiously  repeating  the  parts  which  he  had 
slurred  over  with  a  firmness  that  would  have  satisfied  Aunt 
Polly  herself. 

The  old  maid  rode  on  up  towards  the  river,  and  as  she  reached 
the  turn  of  the  highway,  leading  to  Forty  Fort,  she  spied  in 
advance  of  her,  a  troop  of  soldiers  on  horseback  and  on  foot 
proceeding  towards  the  fort. 

"What  on  airth!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly,  urging  General 
Washington  on;  "  what  are  they  about  ?" 

"  She  rode  without  hesitation  towards  the  little  band,  and 
discovering  an  acquaintance  in  the  leader,  called  out — 

"  Why,  Captain  Slocum,  what's  up  now  ?" 

"  Nothing  very  important,  Miss  Carter,"  he  replied.  "  There 
were  some  men  shot  at  Fort  Jenkins  last  night,  and  Walter 
Butler,  with  a  troop  of  Injuns,  is  in  the  valley.  We  must  be  on 
our  guard." 

"  Ain't  a  going  to  have  a  fight  to-day,  are  we  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell;  it  may  come  any  minute." 

"Wai,  do  your  duty,  Captain  Harding;  do  your  duty!"  said 


310  MARY     DEKWENT. 

Auut  Polly,  assuming  the  tone  in  which  she  h-ad  heard  revolu 
tionary  speeches  delivered.  "  Wyoming  expects  every  man  of 
ye  to  stand  up  to  the  mark — take  care  of  the  widows,  the 
orphans,  and  perticlarly  of  such  young  females  as  haven't  yet 
secured  their  natral  protectors." 

"  We  will  do  our  best,  Miss  Carter,"  returned  the  captain, 
concealing  a  smile,  and  glancing  reprovingly  towards  his  men, 
who  looked  more  amused  than  moved  by  Aunt  Polly's  elo 
quence. 

"I  know  you  will;  I  can  trust  you,  captain,"  replied  the  old 
maid,  approvingly,  as  if  she  felt  that  a  great  responsibility 
rested  upon  her  shoulders.  "  If  you  want  a  hoss,  captain, 
send  for  Gin'ral  Washington,  you're  welcome  to  him;  the  old 
feller  has  stood  fire  too  many  training  days  to  be  afraid  of  Tories 
or  Injuns  ither." 

"  Thank  you;  if  we  have  occasion,  I'll  send  for  him,"  said  the 
captain,  trying  to  move  on,  a  manoeuvre  difficult  to  execute,  for 
Aunt  Polly  had  stationed  herself  directly  in  front  of  the  troop. 

"Do;  and  oh,  captain,"  checking  the  general,  as  he  seemed 
inclined  to  give  way  to  the  soldiers,  "  if  you  want  a  treat  for 
your  men,  I've  got  a  keg  of  Jamaica  spirits  in  my  cellar  that's 
u  leetle  ahead  of  anything  you've  tasted  lately — you're  welcome 
to  it." 

"  That  is  very  kind  of  you,"  replied  Slocum,  while  his  men 
listened  with  lively  interest;  but  he  had  rashly  interrupted  Aunt 
Polly. 

"  Let  'em  drink  all  they  want,"  she  said.  "  I  know  you're  too 
much  of  a  man  to  cheat  me  out  of  a  gill,  captain.  I  can  trust 
you — Sim  White  '11  show  you  where  it  is." 

"  Forward,  men!"  exclaimed  the  commander;  "we're  losing 
time  here." 

"  Law  bless  me,  don't  run  over  a  body!"  cried  Aunt  Polly; 
"  the  gin'ral  and  I  ain't  Tories,  cap  tin." 

But  the  men  pushed  on,  heedless  of  her  expostulations,  and 
the  old  maid  was  forced  to  give  way. 


THE     WEDDING     PRESENT .  311 

"  Don't  forget  the  rum,"  she  shrieked  after  them.  "  You  and 
I'll  settle  for  it  to-morrow,  captain." 

She  rode  on  without  farther  interruption  until  she  came  oppo 
site  the  island.  She  dismounted  with  the  bell-necked  squash 
under  her  arm,  took  a  small  bundle  carefully  off  the  saddle, 
loosened  the  girth  a  little,  and  sent  the  general  up  the  bank  with 
a  pat  of  her  hand.  A  vigorous  and  prolonged  call  speedily 
brought  Mary  Derwent  out  of  the  house,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  her  little  canoe  had  reached  the  shore  where  Aunt  Polly 
stood. 

"  You  see,  Mary,  I've  come  over  early,"  she  said  ;  "  I  thought 
you'd  have  lots  to  do.  Here,  ketch  this  bundle — handle  it  care- 
fal,  it's  something  for  Janey.  I  guess  I  wish  I'd  taken  the  sad 
dle  across  too,  for  it  might  be  stolen  by  some  of  them  rascally 
Tories." 

"  Are  they  around  again  ?"  Mary  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  so  Captain  Slocum  told  me.  I  met  him  and  his  men 
agoin'  to  Forty  Fort.  I  told  'em  their  duty,  and  they  looked 
quite  sober  about  it." 

"  I  fear  that  terrible  times  are  coming,"  said  Mary,  sadly  ; 
"  the  Valley  has  never  been  in  such  confusion  as  it  is  now. 
Edward  Clark  could  only  stay  with  us  a  few  moments  last  night, 
and  won't  be  back  till  evening." 

"  That's  right  1"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly.  "  'Tisn't  proper  for 
him  to  come  till  the  minister  does.  I  never  was  married  myself, 
but  I  know  what  aught  to  be  done,  as  well  as  anybody — there's 
nothing  like  being  prepared,  one  never  knows  when  an  offer  may 
pop  up." 

She  looked  very  meaningly  at  Mary,  but  the  poor  girl  was 
too  anxious  and  troubled,  to  take  notice  of  the  peculiarity  of 
the  old  maid's  manner. 

"  Don't  say  a  word  to  trouble  grandma  and  Jane,"  she  said, 
when  they  reached  the  island  ;  "  it  will  do  no  good." 

"  Of  course  not ;  when  did  you  ever  know  me  to  speak  the 


312  MART      DEE  WENT. 

wrong  word  at  the  wrong  minute  ?  Give  me  that  squash,  Mary  ; 
handle  it  keerful — that's  it." 

She  walked  towards  the  house,  and  Mary,  having  secured  the 
canoe,  followed  at  a  slower  pace.  Within  the  little  kitchen, 
there  was  a  savor  of  chickens  roasting,  and  various  other  eat 
ables  preparing  for  the  evening.  Mother  Derwent  was  frying 
dough-nuts  when  Aunt  Polly  entered,  and  she  wiped  her  floury 
hands  on  her  checked  apron,  in  order  to  return  her  friendly  greet 
ing  with  due  cordiality. 

"  Wai,  Jane,"  said  the  old  maid,  turning  to  Jane,  who  was 
rolling  out  pie-crust  with  great  diligence  ;  "  how  do  you  do  ?  You 
see,  we  all  have  to  come  to  it,  first  or  last — but  law,  the  thought 
takes  away  my  breath.  I  never  can  bear  it  as  you  do." 

"  Why,  Aunt  Polly,  do  you  think  of  getting  married,  too  ?" 
said  Jane,  laughing. 

"  Stranger  things  than  that  have  happened,"  returned  the 
spinster.  "  Men  are  sich  determined  critters,  there  ain't  no 
getting  rid  of  them  when  once  they  get  sot  on  a  thing — a  body 
has  to  say  yes,  whether  or  no." 

"  Who  is  the  man  that  torments  you  so  much  ?"  Jane  in 
quired,  laughing  merrily. 

"  No,  you  don't — you  can't  surprise  no  secrets  out  of  me  1" 
Aunt  Polly  turned  away  her  face  in  pretended  confusion,  to 
Jane's  great  amusement  ;  at  length  she  recovered,  and  taking 
the  squash  from  the  table  where  she  had  placed  it,  she  held  it 
towards  the  old  lady. 

"  How  are  you  off  for  pies,  Miss  Derwent  ?" 

"  Wai,  pretty  well ;  we've  got  lots  of  strawberries  and  rasp 
berries,  and  some  dried  pumpkin." 

"  Dried  punken  1"  repeated  the  old  maid,  with  awful  disdain  ; 
"just  try  that  are  squash  ;  dried  punken,  indeed  1" 

"  This'll  just  finish  you  up — now  get  me  a  knife,  and  Pll 
have  it  sliced  in  short  order." 

The  day  wore  on  in  busy  employment  for  all,  though  Mary's 


THE  WEDDING  PRESENT.         313 

heart  was  full  of  evil  forebodings,  which  she  did  not  breathe 
aloud,  and  she  heard  little  of  the  running  stream  of  talk  which 
Aunt  Polly  kept  up  all  the  while  her  hands  were  so  actively 
employed. 

At  length  the  old  maid  drew  Jane  mysteriously  into  the  inner 
room,  and  pointed  to  a  bundle  laying  on  the  bed. 

"  There's  a  present  for  you,  Janey,"  she  whispered  ;  "  don't 
say  nothing  about  it.  You're  just  as  welcome  as  can  be." 

Before  Jane  could  express  her  thanks,  Aunt  Polly  had  untied 
the  package,  and  held  up  before  the  astonished  girl  a  small 
patch-work  baby  quilt,  valuable  as  a  curiosity,  and  with  a  rising 
sun  in  gay  colors,  forming  the  centre. 

"  I  knew  I  couldn't  give  you  nothing  more  useful,  nor  purtier," 
she  continued,  complacently,  while  Jane  stood  looking  at  her  in 
confused  surprise.  "  'Taint  no  common  quilt — that  was  a  part 
of  my  own  settin'  out ;  I  pieced  it  with  these  two  hands.  I've 
got  another  jest  like  it,  only  the  middle  is  pink  and  blue  ; 
but  I  had  to  keep  that,"  sinking  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  "for 
'taint  best  to  leave  oneself  quite  destitute." 

Jane  tried  to  murmur  something,  but  between  suppressed  mirth 
and  confusion,  she  was  dumb. 

"  You  see  it's  so  much  better  for  you  than  that  carpet  we  talked 
about,  that  ain't  near  done,  and  Pm  so  slow  ;  besides,  young 
folks  oughtn't  to  cosset  themselves  up  with  sich  things.  Scrub 
bing  floors  is  the  wholesomest  work  you  can  have,  and  I  really 
think  carpets  are  unhealthy,  they  make  you  ketch  cold  every 
time  you  go  into  the  air." 

Jane  expressed  her  perfect  satisfaction  with  the  gift,  and 
Aunt  Polly  fell  into  a  confidential  conversation  with  her,  and 
before  they  returned  to  the  kitchen,  had  revealed  her  intended 
marriage  with  Sim  White,  under  promise  of  proposed  secrecy. 
Jane  was  faithful  to  her  pledge,  but  as  Aunt  Polly,  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  was  closeted  with  Mary  and  the  old  grand 
mother,  each  in  her  turn,  and  confided  the  interesting  news  to 


314:  M  A  E,  Y       D  E  K  W  E  N  T  . 

both  under  the  same  vow  of  solemn  silence,  Jane's  fidelity  did 
not  meet  with  its  due  reward. 

Before  four  o'clock  everything  was  prepared,  and  the  whole 
house  set  in  order. 

"  Wai,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  glancing  with  pride  and  affection  at 
the  rows  of  pies  and  huge  piles  of  dough-nuts  and  cakes  ;  "if 
anybody  wants  nicer  fixins  than  these,  let  them  get  'em  up, 
that's  all.  If  ever  I  get  married — not  that  I  say  I'm  goin'  to — 
but  if  I  ever  should,  I  won't  have  no  stingy  doins' — good  eatin' 
and  plenty  of  it'll  be  had,  now  I  tell  you." 

At  last  Mary  escaped,  to  obtain  a  few  quiet  moments  for  reflec 
tion  ;  and  Jane  retired  to  the  other  room  to  give  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  simple  bridal  attire  spread  out  upon  the  coverlet. 
Aunt  Polly,  and  grandmother  Derwent,  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
door,  to  indulge  in  a  quiet  chat,  and  when  the  girls  were  fairly 
out  of  sight,  Aunt  Polly  took  sundry  surreptitious  pinches  of 
snuff  from  the  old  lady's  box,  by  no  means  with  the  air  of  a 
novice,  but  like  a  woman  refreshing  herself  after  a  season  of 
rigid  self-denial 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

THE     CHIEF'S    BUKIAL 


FOR  a  full  half  hour  Queen  Esther  sat  motionless  in  the  chill 
of  that  appalling  silence,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  weapons  of 
death  at  her  feet  with  a  dull  glare,  more  terrible  than  the  fiercest 
rage  of  passion. 

She  rose  slowly,  at  length,  laid  the  rifle  and  scalping-knife 
carefully  aside,  and  clutching  the  tomahawk  of  her  dead  son  in 
her  hand,  passed  noiselessly  out  of  the  tent.  At  the  entrance 
she  met  the  chief,  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  motioned  him  to  follow  with  a 


THE    CHIEF'S    BUEIAL.  315 

stern  gesture  of  command,  and  moved  on  towards  the  roused  en 
campment,  issuing  her  brief  orders  in  a  voice  hard  as  iron. 

From  the  seclusion  of  her  own  tent,  Catharine  Montour  watched 
the  hasty  preparations  for  departure,  and  her  heart  sank  at  the 
Bight  of  those  rigid  faces,  as  the  old  queen  and  her  son  went 
out,  for  she  understood  only  too  well  what  their  calmness  por 
tended. 

She  dared  utter  no  word  of  remonstrance  ;  the  b  ravest  heart 
would  have  shrunk  from  offering  consolation  to  that  grim  woman. 
It  was  still  dark  as  midnight,  and  the  smouldering  fires  cast  a 
lurid  glare  around,  lighting  up  the  stern  visages  flitting  like  sha 
dows  among  the  tents,  while  the  waning  moon  trembled  like  a 
crescent  of  blood  on  the  verge  of  the  western  horizon,  a  sign  of 
approaching  carnage  and  warfare. 

At  length,  a  detachment  of  warriors,  armed  with  rifles  and 
tomahawks,  and  hideous  with  war  paint,  broke  out  from  the 
great  mass,  and  mounting  their  horses,  remained  stationary  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  camp.  Queen  Esther's  horse  was  led  out, 
flowing  with  gems  torn  from  the  persons  of  former  victims  ;  her 
tomahawk  glittered  at  the  saddle-bow,  and  the  head  of  her 
steed  was  decorated  with  raven's  plumes,  that  waved  slowly  to 
and  fro  with  every  motion  of  his  proud  neck.  Catharine  saw  the 
old  queen  come  forth  again  from  her  tent,  grasping  in  her  hand 
the  weapon  which  her  son  had  wielded  in  his  last  battle.  Pass 
ing  with  stern  composure  through  the  group  of  Indians,  she 
planted  one  hand  upon  the  saddle,  and  with  a  single  effort  of  her 
sinewy  arm,  lifted  herself  to  the  seat.  With  no  sound  but  the 
muffled  tread  of  their  horses  on  the  short  turf,  the  band  swept 
on,  with  that  silent  woman  leading  them  on,  and  were  lost  in  the 
darkness  beyond. 

The  great  body  of  Indians  and  the  army  of  whites,  encamped 
at  a  little  distance,  still  kept  their  position,  though  preparations 
for  departure  were  evident  among  them — carried  on  by  the  In 
dians  in  sullen  quiet,  far  more  terrible  than  the  shouts  and  oaths 
which  came  up  from  the  Tory  tents. 


316  MAKT      DEKWENT. 

Catharine  Montour  watched  all,  heard  all,  but  still  she  did  not 
move.  The  chief  did  not  once  approach  her  tent,  and  though  a 
sickness  like  that  of  death  was  on  her,  she  knew  that  the  slight 
est  remonstrance  would  only  increase  the  Shawnee's  thirst  for 
vengeance.  She  did  not  stir  from  the  spot  until  everything  was 
ready  for  their  departure  and  her  horse  was  led  up  to  the  en 
trance  of  her  tent. 

Swiftly  the  detachment,  with  Queen  Esther  for  their  leader, 
swept  down  the  rocky  path  which  led  towards  the  Susquehanna. 
After  a  ride  of  about  twenty  miles,  they  came  out  upon  the  river, 
opposite  the  foot  of  CampbelPs  Ledge,  and,  crossing  the  stream 
there,  continued  their  course  into  the  valley,  only  pausing  while 
Esther  dispatched  a  scout  in  advance,  to  see  that  their  way  to 
the  fort  would  be  unobstructed. 

She  had  halted  just  where  the  Falling  Spring  came  leaping 
down  the  steep  precipice,  white  and  spectral  in  the  gathering 
day.  Beyond,  loomed  up  the  giant  masses  of  the  Ledge,  and  at 
her  feet  the  river  flowed  in  its  pleasant  quietness,  bearing  no 
warning  of  ill  to  the  doomed  inhabitants  of  the  valley. 

During  the  absence  of  their  scout,  the  silence  was  unbroken  ; 
the  warriors  were  banded  together  in  portentous  impassibility  ; 
and  Queen  Esther,  with  her  horse  drawn  a  little  distance  apart,  the 
reins  falling  loosely  upon  his  neck,  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  tomahawk  still  grasped  in  her  hand.  The  Indian  returned, 
and  at  his  signal  the  party  swept  down  the  war-trail,  which  ran 
in  nearly  the  same  course  that  the  roadway  of  the  present  day 
takes,  following  the  river  in  its  sinuous  windings. 

Just  above  Pittston,  the  Susquehanna  and  Lackawanna  meet, 
and  at  their  point  of  union  a  little  island,  picturesque  even  now, 
rests  on  the  bosom  of  the  waters.  The  band  paused  on  the 
shore  of  the  Susquehanna,  in  sight  of  this  island.  A  scow,  used 
by  the  inhabitants  of  the  region  as  a  common  means  of  transpor 
tation  across  the  stream,  was  unmoored,  and  the  whole  band 
were  rowed  over  to  the  opposite  shore.  Again  they  paused,  and 
waited  until  the  main  force  of  Tories  and  savages  came  up,  with 


THE    CHIEF'S    BURIAL.  317 

Gi-en-gwa-tah  at  their  head,  and  Catharine  Montour  in  their 
midst. 

At  the  chief's  command,  the  body  of  Indians  swam  their  horses 
over  to  the  little  island,  their  leader  guiding  the  steed  on  which 
Catharine  rode,  and  commenced  immediate  preparations  for  the 
rearing  of  her  tent. 

On  swept  the  Tories,  headed  by  Queen  Esther  and  her  band, 
over  the  smooth  plains,  then  green  with  rustling  forests,  and 
keeping  within  sight  o'f  the  river.  When  the  dawn  broke,  grey 
and  chill,  Wintermoofs  Fort,  the  stronghold  of  the  Tories, 
loomed  before  them,  surrounded  by  bristling  stockades  and  forti 
fied  outworks. 

At  their  approach,  the  gates  were  thrown  open,  and  the  whole 
army  swept  into  the  inclosure.  Those  within  the  fort  crowded 
around,  in  eager  curiosity,  to  gaze  upon  the  old  queen  ;  but  she 
seemed  unconscious  of  their  glances,  dismounting  at  once  from 
her  horse,  and  following  the  commander  of  the  fort  into  the  room 
where  the  body  of  her  son  had  been  carried. 

Tahmeroo  was  sitting  on  the  floor  by  the  corpse,  but  she  did 
not  raise  her  head  when  ihe~door  opened,  and  Queen  Esther 
moved  towards  the  ben'ch  where  the  body  lay  without  paying 
any  heed  to  the  presence  of  her  grandchild.  She  stood  over  the 
dead  chief  without  any  sign  of  emotion  ;  her  frame  never  once 
relaxed — not  a  muscle  moved,  not  an  eyelash  quivered  ;  her  mo 
tionless  right  hand  fell  at  her  side,  with  the  gleaming  tomahawk 
still  clutched  between  her  clasped  fingers. 

The  Indians  entered  the  room,  took  up  the  body  and  bore  it 
forth,  with  a  low  death-wail,  that  sounded  ominously  drear  in 
the  solemn  stillness  which  came  over  all  within  the  fort. 

Among  that  group  of  awe-struck  gazers  stood  Grenville 
Murray.  He  had  come  into  the  fort  a  few  hours  before,  and 
had  vainly  attempted  to  instill  some  idea  of  mercy  into  the 
ferocity  of  the  Indians  and  Tories,  but  the  pacific  measures  which 
he  pleaded  were  as  much  unheeded  as  if  they  had  been  made  to 
wolves  in  the  forest. 


318  MART      DERWENT. 

The  train,  bearing  the  dead  chief,  passed  through  the  inclosure, 
and  Queen  Esther  followed,  erect  and  still,  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  the  left,  while  Tahmeroo  crouched  behind,  horror- 
stricken  and  pale. 

"  Will  she  take  him  away  ?"  Murray  whispered  to  the  com 
mander. 

"  Yes,  for  burial." 

"  But  she  is  partly  a  white  woman  ;  surely  she  will  not  allow 
him  to  be  buried  in  this  heathenish  fashion." 

"  Do  you  think  Queen  Esther  a  saint  ?"  sneered  the  leader  ; 
"  the  scalpiug-knife  is  her  religion  !" 

Murray  stepped  forwards  and  stood  before  the  queen.  She 
looked  up,  neither  in  anger  nor  surprise,  when  he  ventured  thus 
to  confront  her. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  am  informed  that  there 
is  a  clergyman  in  the  neighborhood — will  you  not  wait  here  until 
he  can  be  summoned  ?  At  least,  let  your  son  be  buried  with  the 
rites  of  your  country's  faith." 

"  The  wilderness  is  my  country,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  tho 
more  startling  from  its  iciness  ;  "  my  son  was  an  Indian  brave  ; 
no  mummeries  of  the  pale-faces  shall  desecrate  his  grave." 

She  passed  on  without  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  reply, 
and  the  procession  moved  out  of  the  fort,  down  to  the  bank  of 
the  river,  where  several  canoes  had  been  procured  for  the 
removal  of  the  corpse. 

Into  the  bark  with  the  dead  man,  stepped  Tahmeroo  and  the 
old  queen.  The  rowers  bent  to  their  task,  and  the  canoe  swept 
up  the  current.  The  Indian  girl  sat  down  by  the  body  of  her  re 
lative,  but  the  old  queen  stood  upright  in  the  stern  of  the  boat, 
the  rising  sun  gilding  the  faded  dun  of  her  robes,  and  gleaming 
balefully  over  the  murderous  weapon  in  her  hand. 

A  tent  had  been  erected  on  the  lower  part  of  the  beautiful 
island,  and  in  the  doorway  stood  Catharine  Montour,  watching 
the  approach  of  the  three  canoes.  The  Indians,  with  their 
chief,  were  grouped  about  the  shore,  and  as  the  canoes  came  in 


KURIAL.  319 

sight  they  struck  up  a  death-song,  in  answer  to  the  chant  from 
the  boats,  prolonged  by  the  women  into  a  mournful  wail,  which, 
accustomed  as  she  was  to  such  scenes,  made  Catharine's  blood 
run  cold. 

The  boats  came  up,  the  old  queen  remained  standing  on  the 
shore,  while  Tahmeroo  sprang  forwards  and  was  silently  clasped 
to  her  mother's  bosom.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since 
the  girl's  flight  in  search  of  her  husband,  but  there  was  no  time 
given  for  joy,  and,  without  a  word,  they  stood  side  by  side  while 
the  mournful  ceremonies  proceeded. 

At  the  lower  extremity  of  the  island  may  be  seen,  to  this  day, 
a  group  of  four  willow  trees,  with  their  trunks  distorted  and 
bent,  and  when  the  wind  is  low,  the  long  branches  sway  to  the 
ground  with  a  sorrowful  music,  which  sounds  like  a  requiem  pro 
longed  from  that  funeral  wail. 

Under  the  shadow  of  those  trees  they  dug  the  young  chief  'a 
grave  and  laid  him  therein,  his  face  covered  with  war-paint  and 
his'  most  precious  possessions  by  his  side.  Rifle  and  scalping- 
kriife  were  placed  reverently  down,  but  when  they  searched  for  the 
tomahawk,  Queen  Esther  took  her  own  decorated  weapon  from 
an  Indian  near  by  and  flung  it  beside  the  body,  standing  erect  as 
ever  while  the  earth  was  thrown  in  and  the  grave  filled 
quickly  up. 

When  all  was  over,  obeying  her  imperious  motion,  the  tribe 
withdrew  to  a  little  distance,  and  she  stood  alone  by  the  head 
of  the  grave,  with  her  right  hand  stretched  over  it — once  her 
lips  moved  faintly,  then  shut  and  locked  themselves  closer  than 
before  ;  but  in  that  moment  of  fearful  self-communion,  Queen 
Esther  had  registered  a  terrible  vow. 

As  the  groups  broke  up,  Butler  landed  in  his  canoe  and  came 
towards  them.  Passing  Catharine  and  Tahmeroo  with  a  hasty 
nod,  he  approached  Queen  Esther  and  whispered  in  her 
ear  : 

"  The  man  I  told  you  of  is  at  the  fort ;  they  tell  me  he  spoke 
with  you — the  missionary,  also,  is  near.  Queen  Esther  need  not 


320  MAEY     DEKWENT. 

go  beyond  her  own  camp-fires  to  discover  the  instigator  of  this 
deed." 

The  queen  returned  no  answer,  but  a  slight  shiver  of  the 
tomahawk  proved  that  his  fiendish  whisper  had  produced  its 
effect,  and  Butler  moved  away.  Though  their  conference  lasted 
scarce  a  second,  and  their  glances  never  once  wandered  towards 
the  place  where  she  stood,  Catharine  Montour  felt  that  the  first 
threads  of  some  plot  against  her  safety  and  life  lia$  been  formed 
above  the  grave  of  the  young  warrior.  ;•)•  '/ 

She  laid  her  hand  on  Tahmeroo's  arm  an,d  enterecl  the  lodge, 
trembling  so  violently  from  weakness  and,riervous  agitation,  that 
she  was  unable  to  stand.  The  girl  sat  down,  chilled  by  her  hus 
band's  coldness,  and  awaiting  his  eiitranc'e  with 'impatience,  the 
more  harassing  from  a  mournful  consciousness  that  she  occupied 
no  place  in  that  reckless  man's  heart. 

After  a  little,  Queen  Esther  collected  her  own  band  of  war 
riors  and  left  the  island,  retracing  the  path  towards  Winter- 
moot's  Fort.  Butler  and  the  chief,  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  held  a  con 
versation  together  upon  the  shore,  during  which  the  gloomy  brow 
of  the  Indian  grew  constantly  darker,  and  the  fire  in  his  eyes 
kindled  into  new  ferocity.  At  length,  he  turned  away  from  the 
young  man,  and  entering  his  wife's  tent,  sat  down  in  sullen 
quiet. 

Catharine  Montour  sat  apart,  with  her  eyes  fixed  in  painful 
apprehension  on  the  wrathful  face  of  the  chief.  There  was  no 
thing  of  the  fierce  courage  in  her  demeanor  that  had  formerly 
characterized  it ;  a  most  astonishing  change  had  been  gradually 
wrought  in  her  mind  and  person  since  the  day  which  witnessed 
her  interview  with  the  missionary,  and  more  visibly  after  Butler's 
return  from  Johnson  Hall,  with  intelligence  of  Murray's  presence 
in  America.  The  healthful  roundness  of  her  person  had  fallen 
away,  and  her  features  had  sharpened  and  grown  of  a  cold  pale 
ness,  till  they  seemed  as  if  chiselled  from  marble.  Her  cheeks 
were  hollow,  her  high  forehead  was  changed  in  its  lofty  and  dar 
ing  expression,  a  calm  sadness  had  settled  upon  it,  and  her  eyes, 


THE    CHIEF'S    BUKIAL.  321 

formerly  fierce  and  keen  almost  as  a  wild  eagle's,  were  full  of 
gentle  endurance,  at  that  moment  disturbed  by  apprehension  and 
fear,  but  by  no  sterner  emotion. 

Never  in  the  days  of  her  loftiest  pride  had  Catharine  Montour 
appeared  so  touchingly  lovely,  so  gentle  and  so  woman-like,  as 
on  that  evening.  She  had  been  pleading  for  her  people  with  the 
fierce  chief — pleading  that  vengeance  should  not  fall  on  the  in 
habitants  of  the  neighboring  valley  in  retribution  for  the  death 
of  a  single  brave.  But  the  Shawnee  had  taken  other  counsellors 
to  his  bosom  within  the  year.  Since  the  fierce  pride  of  Catha 
rine's  character  had  passed  away,  her  influence  over  him  had 
decreased  ;  while  that  of  Butler  was  more  thoroughly  estab 
lished,  and  Queen  Esther  had  regained  all  the  supremacy  which 
for  a  season  had  yielded  to  the  influence  of  his  wife. 

When  almost  as  stern  and  unyielding  as  himself,  Catharine 
might  command — now  she  could  but  supplicate.  The  higher  and 
better  portion  of  her  nature  was,  like  her  history,  a  sealed  book 
to  him  ;  he  could  understand  and  respect  strong  physical  cour 
age,  but  the  hidden  springs  which  form  the  fearful  machinery  of 
a  highly  cultivated  woman,  making  weakness  in  some  things  a 
virtue,  and  even  fear  itself  lovely,  he  could  not  comprehend.  A 
terrible  suspicion  had  been  instilled  into  his  proud  nature,  and 
lie  mistook  her  utterly  ;  his  nobility  of  character,  which  was 
lifted  above  either  savage  or  civilized  cunning,  had  made  him  the 
dupe  of  a  bad  man.  When  moral  goodness  began  to  predomi 
nate  in  Catharine's  character,  he  mistook  its  meek  and  gentle 
manifestations  for  cowardice,  and  she  became  to  him  almost  an 
object  of  contempt.  There  was  no  longer  any  power  in  her 
patient  perseverance  and  persuasive  voice  to  win  his  nature  to 
mercy  ;  the  daring  spirit  which  had  formerly  awed  and  con 
trolled  his,  had  departed  forever  beneath  the  gradual  deepening 
of  repentance  in  her  heart. 

Tahmeroo  joined  earnestly  with  her  mother's  pleading  ;  but  he 
answered  only  with  abrupt  monosyllables,  and  even  with  their 
voices  in  his  ear,  his  sinewy  fingers  worked  eagerly  about  the 

21 


322  MARY      DEKWENT. 

haft  of  bis  knife,  conveying  an  answer  more  appalling  than  the 
fiercest  words  could  have  given.  There  had  been  silence  for 
some  time.  Catharine  Montour  sat  with  one  hand  shading  her 
troubled  brow,  pondering  on  some  means  of  preventing  the  blood 
shed  which  she  had  so  much  cause  to  apprehend,  and  sorely  re 
penting  that  she  had  ever  instigated  the  Indians  to  take  up  arms 
in  the  dispute  waged  between  England  and  her  colonies.  Tah" 
nieroo  stole  away  to  a  corner  of  the  tent,  and  resting  her  cheek 
on  the  palm  of  her  hand,  listened  for  the  footstep  of  her  husband, 
hoping  with  all  the  faith  of  affection,  that  he  would  second  her 
mother's  plea  for  mercy  ;  and  nestling  closer  and  closer  down,  as 
she  thought  of  the  mother  and  infants  whom  her  father's  war 
riors  had  already  murdered,  and  whose  scalps  hung  with  their 
long  and  sunny  hair  streaming  over  the  door  of  the  lodge. 

"  Oh,  if  Butler  would  but  come  in!"  she  murmured,  while  tears 
started  to  her  eyes,  brought  there  by  her  mother's  sorrow  and  the 
pain  which  his  absence  during  the  whole  night  had  produced, 
increased  by  the  lonely  vigil  which  she  had  kept  over  the  body 
of  her  relative — "  He  can  do  anything  with  the  tribe." 

As  she  spoke,  the  mat  was  flung  aside,  and  her  husband  stood 
before  her.  Tahmeroo  sprang  joyfully  to  his  bosom,  and  kissed 
his  cheek,  and  lips,  and  brow,  in  all  the  abandonment  of  a  happy 
and  most  affectionate  heart;  nor  did  she  mark  the  stern  and 
malignant  expression  of  the  face  she  had  been  covering  with 
kisses,  till  he  hastily  released  himself  from  her  arms,  and  without 
returning  her  greeting,  advanced  to  the  chief,  to  whom  he  whis 
pered  again. 

A  fiendish  light  broke  to  the  Shawnee's  eye ;  he  arose,  thrust 
a  tomahawk  into  his  belt,  and  taking  up  his  rifle,  went  out 
Butler  was  about  to  follow,  but  Tahmeroo  again  stood  before 
him,  extending  her  arms  with  an  imploring  gesture. 

"  You  will  not  go  away  yet,"  she  said.  "  You  have  scarcely 
spoken  to  me  since  we  reached  Wyoming — don't  go  yet!" 

"  Stand  out  of  the  way,  foolish  child,"  he  exclaimed,  rudely 
pushing  her  aside.  "  I  have  other  matters  to  think  of !" 


THE    CHIEF'S    BUKIAL.  323 

The  Indian  blood  flashed  up  to  Tahmeroo's  cheek,  her  eye 
kindled,  her  form  was  drawn  to  its  proudest  height,  as  she  stood 
aside,  and  allowed  her  husband  to  pass  out. 

Catharine  had  started  to  her  feet  when  the  Shawnee  went  out, 
and  now  stood  pale  as  death ;  so  much  agitated  by  her  appre 
hensions,  that  the  rudeness  offered  to  her  daughter  escaped  her 
notice.  But  as  Butler  was  hurrying  through  the  doorway,  she 
stepped  forwards  and  grasped  his  arm  with  an  energy  that  caused 
him  to  turn  with  something  like  an  oath,  at  what  he  supposed 
the  importunity  of  his  wife.  Catharine  took  no  heed  of  his 
impatience. 

"Butler,"  she  said,  "I  fear  there  will  be  more  bloodshed;  for 
sweet  mercy's  sake,  appease  the  chief.  You  have  the  power; 
oh,  do  not  lose  the  opportunity.  I  think  it  would  kill  us  all, 
were  another  scalp  to  be  brought  in  " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  shrunk  back  with  a  sick  shudder, 
for  a  gust  of  wind  swept  the  long  hair  which  streamed  from  a 
female  scalp  over  the  entrance,  directly  across  her  face.  Butler 
took  advantage  of  her  emotion  to  make  his  escape. 

"  Have  no  fear,  madam,"  he  said,  freeing  his  arm  from  her 
grasp,  and  brushing  the  scalp  carelessly  back  with  his  hand,  as 
he  went  out;  "  you  shall  have  no  cause.  I  must  hasten  to  the 
council  at  the  fort." 

Catharine  Montour  comprehended  him,  but  too  sick  for 
reply,  drew  back  to  her  daughter's  couch,  and  sat  down  faint 
and  quite  overcome.  There  had  been  something  horrible  in  the 
feeling  of  that  long,  fair  hair,  as  it  swept  over  her  face;  her 
nerves  still  quivered  with  the  thought  of  it. 

"  Mother,"  said  Tahmeroo,  rising  from  the  ground,  where  she 
had  cast  herself,  and  winding  her  arms  around  Catharine,  "oh, 
mother,  comfort  me — do  comfort  me,  or  my  heart  will  break  I" 

Catharine  pressed  her  lips  upon  the  forehead  of  the  young 
wife,  and  murmured, 

"  What  troubles  you,  my  child  ?" 

She  looked  fondly  and  affectionately  on  the  grieved  face  whith 


324  MAEY      DEKWENT. 

lay  upon  her  bosom  as  she  spoke,  and  her  heart  ached  when  she 
saw  how  disappointments,  regrets,  and  checked  tenderness  had 
worn  upon  its  former  rich  beauty.  The  wrung  heart  had  spread  a 
sadness  over  those  features,  as  the  worm  in  the  bosom,  of  a 
flower  withers  all  its  surrounding  leaves. 

Tahmeroo  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  at  her  mother's  ques 
tion. 

"  Did  you  not  see  him,  mother  ? — how  he  pushed  his  own  wife 
aside,  as  if  she  had  been  a  wild  animal — did  you  not  see  him 
thrust  her  away  without  a  kiss,  or  one  kind  word  ?  Oh,  mother, 
my  heart  is  growing  hard.  1  shall  hate  him,  mother." 

Catharine  laid  her  hand  on  the  throbbing  forehead  of  her 
daughter,  and  remained  in  a  solemn  and  serious  thought.  At 
length,  she  spoke  in  a  deep  and  impressive  voice. 

"No,  my  child,  I  did  not  see  this  rudeness,  for  my  thoughts 
were  on  other  things — but  listen  to  me,  Tahmeroo.  Since  the 
day  that  yon  were  first  laid  in  my  bosom,  like  a  young  bird  in 
the  nest  of  its  mother,  my  heart  has  hovered  over  yours,  as  that 
mother-bird  guards  its  youngling.  I  have  watched  every  new 
faculty  as  it  sprung  up  and  blossomed  in  your  mind.  I  have 
striven  to  guide  each  strong  passion  as  it  dawned  in  your  heart; 
your  nature  has  been  to  me  as  a  garden,  which  I  could  enter 
and  cultivate  and  beautify,  when  disgusted  with  the  weedy  and 
poisonous  growth  of  human  nature  as  I  have  found  it  in  the 
world;  as  I  have  found  it  in  my  own  heart;  but  there  is  one 
thing  which  I  have  not  done.  I  have  laid  no  foundation  of 
religion  and  principle  in  this  young  soul;  I  had  become  an  unbe 
liever  in  the  faith  of  my  fathers.  I  acknowledged  no  God,  and 
resolutely  turned  my  thoughts  from  a  future.  My  spirit  had 
erected  to  itself  one  idol — an  idol  which  it  was  sin  to  love,  and 
double  sin  to  worship  as  I  worshipped. 

"  I  will  not  show  to  you,  my  child,  the  progress  of  a  life — a 
wretched  destiny  which  was  regulated  by  one  sin;  a  foible  most 
men  would  call  it,  for  human  judgment  fixes  on  acts,  not  on  that 
more  subtle  sin,  a  train  of  unlawful  thoughts;  1  will  not  show  to 


THE    CHIEF'S    BURIAL.  325 

you  the  working  of  that  sin;  it  is  the  curse  of  evil  that  its 
consequences  never  cease;  that  thought  is  interlinked  with 
thought,  event  with  event,  and  that  the  effects  of  one  wrong 
creep  like  serpents  through  the  whole  chain  of  a  human  life, 
following  the  perpetrator  even  in  the  grave. 

"  My  own  destiny  would  be  a  painful  illustration  of  this  truth 
— might  be  the  salvation  of  many  in  its  moral,  but  when  did 
example  save  ?  When  did  the  fall  of  one  human  being  prevent 
the  fall  of  another  ?  Why  should  I  expose  my  own  errors  in 
hopes  to  preserve  you,  my  child,  from  similar  wrong  ?  What 
you  have  just  said,  startles  and  pains  me;  I  know  your  nature, 
and  know  that  you  will  never  cease  to  love  the  man  whom  you 
have  married;  indifferent  you  will  never  be — a  sense  of  wrong 
indignation,  if  indulged  in,  may  make  the  love  of  your  heart  a 
pain — may  sap  away  the  good  within  you,  engender  all  those 
regrets  that  poisons  the  joy  of  affection. 

"Tahmeroo,  struggle  against  this  feeling;  you  little  dream  of 
the  terrible  misery  which  it  will  bring  to  you.  Bear  everything, 
abuse,  insult,  neglect — everything,  but  cast  not  yourself  loose 
from  your  only  hope.  Your  safety  lies  in  the  very  love  which, 
though  it  make  the  bitterness  of  your  life,  is  its  safeguard,  too. 
In  your  own  heart  is  the  strength  you  must  look  for,  not  in  his. 
If  he  wrongs  you,  forget  it,  if  you  can — excuse  it,  if  you  cannot 
forget.  Think  not  of  your  own  rights  too  much ;  where  struggling 
is  sure  to  bring  misery,  it  is  better  to  forbear.  I  could  say  much 
more,  for  my  heart  is  full  of  anxiety  and  sorrow.  I  know  not 
why,  but  my  spirit  droops,  as  if  your  head  were  on  my  bosom, 
and  your  arms  about  me  for  the  last  time  forever." 

Catharine  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  tremulous  lips  of  her 
child.  She  was  answered  back  with  a  gush  of  gentle  tears. 

"  Weep  on,  my  daughter;  I  love  to  see  you  shed  such  tears,  for 
there  is  no  passion  in  them.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  dearly  I  love 
and  have  ever  loved  you,  for  deep  feeling  has  no  words;  but  we 
shall  part  soon;  there  is  something  in  my  heart  which  tells  me  so 


326  MAEY      DEB  WENT. 

• — the  grave  will  come  between  ns,  and  you  will  be  left  with  no 
stronger  guide  than  your  own  warm  impulses. 

"  Kiss  me  once  more,  and  listen.  Should  we  be  parted  by 
death,  or  should  Butler  claim  my  promise  to  send  you  to  Eng 
land,  go  first  to  the  missionary,  and  convey  to  him  the  little 
ebony  box  at  the  head  of  your  couch ;  tell  him  all  that  I  have 
said  to  you,  and  ask  him  to  become  a  protector  and  a  friend  to 
Catharine  Granby's  child.  Tell  him,  that  since  the  night  of  her 
daughter's  marriage,  she  has  been  a  changed  woman — that  the 
voice  of  his  prayer  that  night  awoke  memories  which  will  never 
sleep  again — awoke  answering  prayer  in  a  bosom  which  had 
almost  forgotten  its  faith.  He  will  listen  to  you,  my  child,  and 
when  I  am  gone,  you  will  find  a  safe  and, wise  protector  in  him. 
He  will  teach  you  how  to  regulate  your  too  enthusiastic  feelings. 
Promise  that  you  will  seek  this  good  man  when  I  am  taken  away 
— do  you  promise,  Tahmeroo  ?" 

"  I  will  promise  anything — everything,  mother;  but  do  not 
talk  so  sadly — your  voice  sounds  mournful  as  the  night  wind 
among  the  pines." 

Tahmeroo  said  no  more,  for  her  heart  was  full  ;  but  she 
laid  her  cheek  against  her  mother's,  and  remained  in  her 
embrace,  silent  and  sorrowful. 


THE    WHITE    QUEEN'S    GIFT.  327 


CHAPTER  XLIL 


WHILE  these  events  were  transpiring,  the  morning  wore  on  at 
Mother  Derwent's  cottage  in  the  quiet  which  we  have  before 
described.  But  while  Aunt  Polly  and  the  old  lady  held  their 
cheerful  conversation  by  the  door,  the  sound  of  drums  and 
ehrill  fifes  came  from  the  distance,  and  confused  sounds  rose  from 
about  Wintermoot's  Fort.  The  two  women  started  up  in  affright. 
Jane  Derwent  rushed,  half-dressed,  from  the  inner  room,  trem 
bling  with  terror.  Mary  was  aroused  from  her  solitude,  and 
came  forth  very  pale,  but  self-possessed  and  calm. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  she  said  ;  "  it  will  probably  only  lead 
to  a  skirmish." 

"  Oh,  if  Edward  should  be  out  !"  exclaimed  Jane. 

"If  he  is,"  returned  Mary,  solemnly,  "  God  takes  care  of 
those  who  perform  their  duty — trust  to  him,  sister." 

"  If  anything  should  happen  to  him  !"  said  Jane,  weeping  ; 
"  I  have  treated  him  so  bad,  teased  him  so  dreadfully !" 

"  Law,  Janey,  don't  fret  1"  urged  Aunt  Polly  ;  "  it  does  the 
men  good  to  tease  'em  afore  you're  married,  it's  soon  enough  to 
give  up  after  the  knot  is  tied. 

"  Hark  !"  exclaimed  Mother  Derwent.   "  Hear  that  shout." 

"  I  wish  we  knew,"  said  Mary  ;  "  if  I  were  only  on  the  shore." 

"  Don't  go,  Mary  I"  pleaded  Jane  ;  "  I  shall  die  if  you  leave 
me.  Besides,  I  ain't  dressed — oh,  Mary,  do  help  me  ;  it'll  all 
turn  out  well  enough,  I  dare  say — come." 

"  Yes,  go,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  smoothing  out  her  dress  ;  "  I'll 
stay  with  grandma."  Mary  followed  the  agitated  girl  into 
the  little  bedroom  which  they  had  occupied  since  their  childhood. 
The  room  was  neatly  arranged.  Mother  Derwent's  best  blue 
worsted  quilt,  with  the  corners  neatly  tucked  in  at  the  foot-posts , 


328  MARY      DERWENT. 

covered  the  high  bed,  and  the  white  linen  pillows  lay  like  snow- 
heaps  upon  it.  The  old  lady's  best  patch-work  cushion  was 
placed  in  the  arm-chair  which  stood  in  a  corner,  and  a  garland 
of  Princes'  pine  hung  around  the  little  looking-glass,  before 
which  Jane  Derwent  stood,  "  with  a  blush  on  her  cheek  and  a 
smile  in  her  eye,"  arranging  the  folds  of  her  white  muslin  bridal- 
dress  over  a  form  that  would  not  have  seemed  out  of  place  in  a 
palace. 

"  Mary,  shall  I  tie  this  on  the  side  or  behind  ?"  inquired  the 
blooming  girl,  holding  up  a  sash  of  the  most  delicate  blossom 
color,  with  the  usual  volatility  of  her  nature,  forgetting  her 
alarm  in  the  pleasant  excitement  of  the  moment.  Mary  lifted 
her  face  from  the  wreath  of  wild-roses  which  she  was  forming 
for  her  sister's  hair,  and  smiled  as  she  answered  ;  but  it  was  a 
smile  of  soft  and  gentle  sadness  ;  patient  and  sweet  as  the  breath 
of  a  flower,  though  her  cheek  was  pale  with  anxiety,  for  she 
felt  that  something  terrible  was  close  upon  them. 

"  Let  me  tie  it  for  you,"  she  said,  laying  the  wreath  on  the 
pillow,  and  removing  a  handful  of  roses  from  her  lap  to  a  basket 
which  stood  on  the  rude  window  seat.  "  There,  now  sit  down, 
while  I  twist  the  roses  among  your  curls." 

Jane  sunk  gracefully  to  her  sister's  feet,  while  she  per 
formed  her  task.  When  the  last  blossom  was  entwined  on  her 
temple,  the  bride  raised  her  beautiful  face  to  her  sister's  with  an 
expression  of  touching  love.  "Oh,  Mary,  should  I  have  been 
so  happy,  if  it  had  not  been  for  you?  How  glad  I  am 
that  you  persuaded  me  to  tell  Edward  about  that  bad  man!" 

Mary  did  not  answer  in  words,  bat  her  eyes  filled  with  pleasant 
tears  ;  she  bent  down  and  laid  her  cheek  against  that  of  the 
bride,  and  they  clung  together  in  an  embrace  full  of  love  and 
sisterly  affection. 

While  they  were  talking,  a  boat  put  off  from  the  opposite 
shore,  and,  as  Jane  looked  out,  she  saw  Edward  Clark  and  the 
missionary  land  on  the  Island.  Edward  ran  towards  the  houso 
in  breathless  haste. 


THE     WHITE     QUEEN'S     GIFT.  329 

"  Oh,  Mary,  that's  him  and  the  minister.  Please  go  out  first, 
sister,  while  I  get  my  breath." 

But  while  she  was  speaking,  Edward  Clark  ran  through  the 
kitchen,  and  dashing  into  the  bed-room,  flung  his  arms  around 
Jane,  who  stood  with  her  lips  apart,  lost  in  astonishment. 

"  Jane,  dear  Jane,  forgive  me  !  Oh,  how  beautiful  you  look  I 
But  it  cannot  be.  Mary,  Ma.ry,  the  wedding  is  all  broken  up. 
Wintermoot's  Fort  is  swarming  with  Tory  troops.  The  woods 
are  full  of  Indians.  Get  ready,  I  beg  of  you — get  into  my  boat, 
and  make  the  best  of  your  way  to  Forty  Fort.  The  Tories  have 
already  taken  Fort  Jenkins  ;  but  we  shall  give  them  hot  work 
before  they  get  hold  of  another  block-house.  Jane,  dear  Jane, 
look  up — don't  tremble  so  I  come,  be  a  brave  girl,  like  Mary. 
Grandmother — Grandmother  Derwent,  do  you  know  what  I  am 
saying  ?  Aunt  Polly  Carter,  you  ought  to  have  some  courage  ; 
do  come  and  help  them  off  I  Keep  close  to  the  east  bank  of  the 
river  till  you  get  opposite  the  Fort,  then  land,  and  run  for 
your  lives.  Jane,  Jane,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  do  not 
faint !" 

"  Edward,  Edward,  what  is  it — how  can  we  go — what  must 
we  do  ?"  exclaimed  Jane,  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
wild  with  terror. 

"  Our  marriage,  it  cannot  take  place  to-day.  The  valley  is 
full  of  enemies.  Our  people  are  halfway  to  Wintermoot's  ; 
I  must  go  back  at  once — every  man  is  needed,"  he  repeated 
breathlessly. 

"  They  will  kill  you — they  will  kill  you,  and  us  !"  shrieked  the 
bride. 

"  Hush,  Jane  I"  and  Mary  drew  her  sister  av?ay  ;  "  this  is  no 
time  for  tears  ;  Edward  has  need  of  all  his  strength." 

At  that  moment  the  missionary  came  in. 

"  Away  !"  he  cried,  addressing  Clark  ;  "  why  do  you  loiter 
here  ?  your  friends  are  on  the  move  by  this  time.  Away,  I  tell 
you  !  Leave  the  family  to  inc." 

A  scene  of  confusion  followed.     Jane  Derwent  sank  fainting  in 


330  MARY      DEKWENT. 

the  arms  of  her  sister,  and  all  Mary's  energies  were  tasked  to 
recover  her  from  that  death-like  swoon. 

"  God,  save  her  1"  cried  Edward  Clark,  pressing  a  kiss  on  the 
forehead  of  his  betrothed,  and  hastening  away. 

"  Oh  1"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly,  "  if  I  only  knew  where  Sim 
White  was  1" 

"  I  saw  him  last  at  Forty  Fort",  replied  Clark  rushing  past  her 

"  Then  I'm  agoin'  there  too  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Here,  grand 
ma  Derwent,  give  me  a  sun-bonnet,  a  handkerchief,  or  somethin'. 
'Tain't  no  use  to  spile  my  best  Sunday  bonnet." 

"  We'll  all  go,"  cried  Mrs.  Derwent ;  "  we  shall  be  safe  there. 
Mary,  Mary  Derwent  1" 

"  What  shall  we  do,"  cried  Mary,  who  heard  this  call  from  the 
next  room,  turning  to  the  missionary — "  how  must  I  act  ?  She 
is  quite  senseless,  and  I  cannot  carry  her." 

"  Give  her  to  me,"  answered  the  minister.  "  Go  and  get 
something  to  wrap  round  her." 

A  mantle  hung  on  the  wall.  Mary  left  her  sister  to  the  minis 
ter,  and  reached  up  to  take  the  garment  down.  Her  sleeves 
broke  loose  in  the  effort,  and  fell  back  from  her  arms,  exposing 
the  jewelled  serpent  that  Catharine  Montour  had  clasped  around 
it.  The  missionary  saw  the  jewel,  and  gave  a  start  that  almost 
dislodged  Jane  from  his  hold. 

"  Where — tell  me,  child — where  did  you  get  that  ?"  he  said, 
with  a  sort  of  terror  as  if  he  had  seen  a  living  snake  coiled  on 
the  snow  of  her  arm. 

"  She  gave  it  to  me — the  white  queen  whom  they  call  Catha- 
ine  Montour." 

"  Where  and  when  ?" 

"One  night — the  very  next,  I  remember  now,  after  Walter 
Butler  tried  to  persuade  her.  You  know  all  I  would  say.  This 
strange  lady  sent  for  me  to  meet  her  at  the  spring." 

"  And  you  went — you  saw  her  ?"  cried  the  minister,  forgetting 
the  danger  of  the  insensible  girl  in  his  arms — everything  in  the 
question. 


THE    WHITE    QUEEN'S    GIFT.  331 

"  Yes,  I  saw  her.  She  talked  to  me — ah,  how  kindly  ! — and 
at  the  end,  clasped  this  on  my  arm.  Now  I  remember,  she  told 
me  if  danger  threatened  me  or  mine  from  the  Indians,  to  show 
them  this,  and  it  would  save  us." 

"  Trust  to  it — yes,  trust  to  it,  and  remain  here  in  safety.  This 
strange  lady  is  in  the  valley  ;  her  tents  are  pitched  on  the  little 
island  in  the  mouth  of  the  Lackawanna.  Her  jewel  must  have 
power  among  the  savages." 

"  I  feel  certain  of  it,"  answered  Mary,  dropping  her  arm,  and 
leaving  the  mantle  on  the  wall.  "  I  would  risk  more  than  my 
life  on  that  noble  lady's  word." 

The  missionary  looked  on  her  earnestly,  and  evidently  without 
knowing  it,  for  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  which  he  made  no  effort 
to  hide. 

"  You  saw  her,  and  she  saw  you?  Was  she  kind — was  sho 
gentle  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  kind — very  gentle.  If  I  dared,  perhaps  I  might 
say  more  than  kind,  for  she  hold  me  against  her  heart  almost 
all  the  time  we  were  talking,  and  once  I  am  sure  she  kissed  my 
hair." 

11  Stay  here  ;  trust  to  her  promise  till  I  come  again,"  said  the 
minister,  laying  Jane  on  the  bed,  and  preparing  to  leave  the 
room. 

"  I  will  stay,"  answered  Mary,  bending  over  her  sister,  and 
kissing  her  lips,  which  were  just  beginning  to  crimson  with  new 
life. 

As  the  missionary  passed  through  the  kitchen,  Aunt  Polly  ran 
ufter  him. 

"  If  you're  going  over,  just  set  me  across.  Gineral  Washington 
is  on  t'other  side,  and  I  can't  leave  him  among  the  Tories,  anyhow. 
We'll  set  Mother  Derwent  and  the  gals  afloat,  and  then  every 
one  for  his  self,  says  I.  There,  Miss  Derwent,  don't  patter  round, 
looking  for  sun-bonnets  any  longer.  I'll  risk  the  other  rather 
than  wait.  Mary — Mary  Derwent,  I  say  I" 

The  missionary  did  not  appear  to  understand  her,  but  passed 


332  MAEY      DEE  WE  NT. 

through  the  room  as  if  she  had  not  spoken.  Mary  left  her  sister 
for  an  instant,  and  entered  the  kitchen. 

"  Come,  get  ready  and  go  with  me,"  cried  the  old  maid. 
"  Mrs.  Derwent  and  Janey  can  pull  down  in  the  canoe,  and  I'll 
take  you  behind  me  on  the  Gineral." 

"  No,"  replied  Mary  ;  "  we  are  safe  here — the  Indians  have  al 
ways  liked  me.  Be  calm,  grandmother  ;  you  are  in  no  danger — 
we  will  stay  here.  I  may  be  able  to  assist  those  on  the  shore  if 
the  battle  goes  against  us." 

"  Fm  gone  1"  cried  Aunt  Polly,  dashing  forwards  after  the 
missionary.  "  The  Tories  ain't  agoin'  to  scare  me  !  I  hope  to 
goodness  Cap  tin  Slocums  'ill  fight  in  the  rear  ;  I  shall  never 
get  my  pay  for  that  ere  rum  if  he  don't  turn  up  safe." 

She  followed  the  missionary,  and  placed  herself  in  his  boat 
just  as  it  was  putting  off,  leaving  old  Mother  Derwent  weeping 
helplessly  on  the  hearth,  and  Mary  encouraging  her  sister,  full 
of  serene  fortitude,  and  praying  silently  for  the  safety  of  the 
neighbors  and  friends  who  were  marching  to  the  fight.] 


CHAPTER    XLIIL 

THE     WOMEN     AT     FORTY     FORT. 

AND  now  the  cry  of  mustering  battle  rose  like  wildfire  through 
the  valley.  The  farmers  forsook  the  fields,  mechanics  left  their 
workshops,  and  armed  with  such  weapons  as  presented  them 
selves,  gathered  in  companies,  eager  to  drive  out  their  invaders. 
Women  left  their  cabins,  and  with  their  children  sought  the 
shelter  of  various  forts,  or  armed  themselves  like  the  men,  and 
stood  at  bay  on  their  own  thresholds.  It  was  one  of  these  com 
panies  filing  off  towards  Forty  Fort,  the  most  extensive  fortifica 
tion  on  the  river,  which  Aunt  Polly  had  met  on  her  way  to 


THE     WOMEN     AT     FOKTY     FOET.  333 

Monockonok  Island.  Col.  Zebulon  Butler,  a  staunch  patriot  and 
an  officer  of  the  continental  army,  had  chanced  to  return  home 
on  a  visit  to  his  family  at  this  awful  period,  and  was  by  unani 
mous  consent  made  commander-in-chief.  Colonels  Denison  and 
Dorrance  volunteered  their  aid,  and  that  day  came  five  commissions 
from  the  army,  accompanied  by  the  missionary,  who  having  at 
tained  intelligence  of  the  invasion,  went  to  urge  their  presence. 
Thus  the  raw  recruits  were  officered  by  experienced  men,  and 
there  was  hope  from  delay,  for  Captain  Spralding  was  already 
on  his  march  to  the  valley  with  a  well  drilled  company. 

With  these  advantages  and  hopes  there  arose  a  division  of 
opinion  in  the  council  at  Forty  Fort  ;  but  the  impetuous  and  in 
experienced  carried  the  day,  and  the  opinion  of  the  brave  com 
mander  was  overruled.  Alas,  for  that  council  and  the  men  who 
controlled  it !  The  fatal  order  was  given.  In  a  body  the  pa 
triots  were  about  to  storm  Wmtermoot's  Fort,  hoping  to  surprise 
its  garrison. 

Having  decided  their  own  fearful  destiny,  this  band  of  martyrs 
marched  out  of  the  fort  and  mustered  under  the  clear  sun,  which 
they  would  never  see  rise  again. 

It  was  a  mournful  sight — those  old  Connecticut  women  stand 
ing  in  front  of  the  block-house  ready  to  say  farewell,  and  call 
God's  mercy  down  upon  the  heads  their  bosoms  had  pillowed,  in 
some  cases,  for  fifty  years  ;  heads  too  grey  for  the  general  ser 
vice  for  which  their  sons  had  gone,  but  not  too  grey  for  defence 
of  those  grand  old  wives  and  mothers,  who,  fired  with  patriotism 
and  yet  pale  with  terror,  stood  to  see  them  go. 

Seldom  have  troops  like  those  gone  forth  to  battle.  No 
fathers  and  sons  marched  side  by  side  there,  but  grandfathers 
and  grandsons,  the  two  extremes  of  life,  stood  breast  to  breast 
on  that  fearful  day.  Congress  had  drawn  the  strength  and  pith 
of  the  valley  into  its,  own  army  and  left  it  cruelly  defenceless. 
Thus  each  household  gave  up  its  old  men  and  boys,  while  the 
mothers,  already  half  bereaved,  looked  on  with  trembling  lips, 
ready  to  cry  out  with  anguish,  but  making  mournful  efforts  to 


334  MARY      DEKWENT. 

cheer  them  with  their  quivering  voices.  Lads,  too  young  for 
battle,  saw  their  elder  brothers  file  off  with  reckless  envy,  while 
the  little  grandchildren,  who  looked  upon  the  whole  muster  as  a 
pleasant  show,  clapped  their  hands  in  glee,  more  painful  still, 
and  followed  the  grey-headed  battalion  with  sparkling  eyes. 

Younger  women,  with  husbands  in  the  wars,  strove  to  console 
their  mothers,  but  dropped  into  silence  with  the  vague  words 
upon  their  lips,  while  the  children  tugged  at  their  garments  and 
clamored  for  one  more  sight  at  the-  soldiers. 

When  all  were  gone — when  the  hollow  tramp  of  those  moving 
masses  could  no  longer  be  heard,  the  women  looked  at  each 
other  with  a  vague  feeling  of  desolation.  The  bravest  heart 
gave  way  then  ;  one  woman  threw  an  apron  over  her  head  that 
no  one  might  see  her  crying,  another  looked  upon  the  earth  with 
her  withered  hands  locked,  and  tears  finding  mournful  channels 
in  the  wrinkles  of  her  quivering  face  ;  another  sat  down  on  the 
ground,  gathered  her  children  around  her,  and  wept  in  their 
midst,  while  two  or  three  strove  to  dash  their  fears  away  with 
wild  attempts  at  boastfulness  and  defiance,  and  the  rest  fell  to 
work  preparing  to  receive  the  fugitives  who  were  every  moment 
applying  for  admission  to  the  fort. 

Thus  the  day  wore  on.  For  some  hours  everything  outside 
the  fort  was  still  as  death,  but,  a  little  after  noon,  that  dull  tramp 
of  feet  came  back,  measured  and  stern,  and  a  little  girl,  who  had 
climbed  to  a  loop-hole  in  the  fort,  called  out  that  she  saw  the 
"  sogers  going  through  the  trees,  with  their  guns  and  bayonets 
a  shining  like  everything;"  and,  again,  "  that  she  saw  Colonel  Zeb. 
Butler  on  his  great  brown  horse,  with  his  cocked  hat  on,  and  a 
grand  feather  dancing  up  and  down — oh  beautifully  I" 

<l  What  next,  what  next — who  goes  next  ?"  cried  the  grand- 
dame  ;  "  look,  Hetty,  do  look  if  you  can  see  grandpa  anywhere. ; 

"  No,  grandma,"  cried  out  the  child,  in  great  glee,  "  but  there's 
Colonel  Denison,  and  Lcftenant  Dorrance,  and  Leftcnant  Ransom, 
all  with  their  swords  out.  Oh,  Aunt  Eunice,  Aunt  Eunice  !  hero 
comes  Captain  Durkee." 


THE     WOMEN     AT     FOETY     FOET.  335 

"  My  ROD — my  son  1"  cried  an  old  woman  in  the  crowd,  while 
the  tears  coursed  down  her  face,  "  look  again,  Hetty,  dear,  and 
tell  me  just  how  he  seems." 

"  I  can't,  Aunt  Eunice,  'taint  no  use  ;  here  comes  Captain 
Bidlack  ahead  of  his  company.  Oh,  here's  a  lot  of  folks  I 
know — Mr.  Pensil  and  Mr.  Holenback,  and  there  goes  Mr. 
Dana,  and,  oh  dear,  oh  dear,  there's  Uncle  Whitton,  looking 
this  way." 

"  My  husband — my  husband  1"  cried  a  fair  young  girl,  only 
three  weeks  a  bride  ;  "  here,  Hetty,  catch  my  handkerchief  and 
shake  it  out  of  the  port-hole  ;  he'll  know  it  and  fight  the 
harder." 

"Do,  Hetty,  darling,  that's  a  purty  gal  ;  do  look  once  more 
for  Captain  Durkee.  There,"  continued  the  old  woman,  appeal 
ing  to  the  crowd  around  her  with  touching  deprecation,  w  I 
hain't  hardly  had  a  chance  to  speak  to  him  yet.  Mebby  you 
don't  know  that  when  the  Continentals  wouldn't  give  him  leave 
to  come  hum  and  take  care  of  his  old  inarm,  he  just  threw  up 
his  commission,  and  there  he  is  a  volunteer  among  the  rest  on 
em  ;  so  du  give  me  one  more  chance — du  you  see  him  yet, 
Hetty  ?" 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Eunice,  I  kinder  think  I  see  his  feather  a-dancing 
over  the  brush." 

"  And  not  his  face  ?  Oh  dear,  if  I  could  only  climb  ;  will  some 
on  ye  help  me ;  Du  now,  I  beg  on  ye." 

The  poor  old  woman  made  a  struggle  to  climb  up  the  rude 
logs,  but  fell  back,  tearing  away  a  handful  of  bark  and  bringing 
it  down  in  her  grasp. 

"  They've  all  gone  now,"  cried  out  the  child  ;  "  I  can't  see  no 
thing  but  s^me  crows  agin  the  sky,  follering  arter  'em." 

"  Following  arter  'em — Lord  a'  massy  upon  us  then!"  whispered 
the  old  woman  drawing  a  heavy  breath,  and  she  turned  away  with 
a  deadly  paleness  on  her  face,  without  addressing  the  child  again. 

"  There,  they  all  go  on  the  run  now — hurra — hurra  I  Won't 
the  Injuns  catch  it — hurra  1" 


336  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

All  the  little  voices  in  the  fort  set  up  an  answering  shout  as 
the  child  clambered  down  from  her  post.  The  younger  women 
received  this  infant  battle-cry  as  an  omen.  Their  faces,  hitherto 
so  anxious,  flushed  with  enthusiasm  ;  those  who  had  wept  before, 
started  up  and  went  to  work  at  random,  tearing  up  old  sheets 
and  scraping  lint,  while  a  group  of  little  boys  built  a  fire  within 
the  stockade,  and  went  to  work  vigorously,  moulding  bullets 
from  hot  lead  they  melted  in  the  iron  skillets,  which  were  yet 
warm  from  cooking  the  last  household  breakfast. 

The  women  knew  that  the  troops  had  moved  up  stream,  and 
would  go  on  till  they  met  the  enemy  ;  so,  with  their  hearts 
leaping  at  every  noise,  they  waited  in  terrible  suspense  for  the 
first  shot.  Thus  two  hours  crept  by — two  long,  terrible  hours, 
that  no  human  being  in  that  fort  ever  forgot.  Two  or  three 
times  little  Hetty  climbed  up  to  her  old  look-out — the  loop-hole, 
but  came  down  in  silence,  for  nothing  but  the  still  plain  met  her 
search.  The  third  time,  however,  she  called  out,  but  with  less 
enthusiasm  than  before  : 

"  Here  conies  somebody  down  the  cart-road,  full  trot,  on  a 
great  white  hoss  ;  oh,  it's  Aunt  Polly  Carter,  with  her  go-to- 
meeting  bonnet  on,  a-riding  like  split  ;  I  guess  somebody  7ed 
better  let  her  in,  for  she's  turning  right  up  to  the  fort." 

"  She  comes  from  up  stream  ;  she  must  a'  seen  the  army  ;  some 
one  run  and  tell  the  guard  to  let  her  in,"  cried  a  score  of  voices  ; 
"  she's  got  news — she'll  bring  news." 

With  a  clamor  of  eager  expectation,  the  women  rushed  up  to 
meet  Aunt  Polly,  who,  in  defiance  of  all  military  laws,  rode  Gene 
ral  Washington  within  the  stockade,  and  close  up  to  the  fort. 
She  was  greatly  excited  ;  her  huge  bonnet  had  taken  a  military 
twist,  and  loomed  out  from  one  side  of  her  head,  giving  her  grim 
features  to  full  view  ;  a  large  cotton  shawl,  flaming  with  gor 
geous  colors,  was  crossed  over  her  bosom  and  tied  in  a  fierce  knot 
behind  ;  she  carried  a  long  walnut  switch  in  her  right  hand,  worn 
to  a  tiny  brush  at  the  end,  for  in  the  excitement  of  that  ride  she 
had  beaten  General  Washington  into  a  hard  gallop  every  other 
minute. 


THE     WOMEN     AT     FORTY     FOKT.  337 

"  Have  I  seen  'em — of  course  I  have,  and  a  wonderful  sight  it 
was — hull  battalions  of  sogers  a-moving  majestically." 

"  Did  you  see  my  son — was  the  enemy  near — can  they  surprise 
Wintermoot's  Fort  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me,  neighbors — don't  say  a  word  1"  cried  Aunt 
Polly,  dismounting  from  General  Washington,  and  turning  from 
one  eager  inquirer  to  another,  "for  I  don't  know  much  more  than 
you  do  ;  but  this  is  sartin,  them  Tory  Butlers  know  what  they're 
about ;  they're  outside  of  the  fort,  and  drawn  up  in  battle  array  ; 
I  never  could  a  got  through  the  sogers,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Cap 
tain  Walter  Butler  ;  he  knew  me  at  the  first  sight,  and  made 
some  of  his  men  ride  by  Gineral  Washington  till  we  got  this  side 
his  army." 

"  How  many  are  there — did  you  see  any  Injuns  ?" 

"  I  couldn't  begin  to  calkerlate  ;  yes,  I  did  see  a  lot  of  Injuns 
skulking  in  the  swamp  ;  but  seeing  the  Tories  with  me,  they 
didn't  shute." 

"  But  our  side,  our  side — where  did  you  meet  them  ?" 

"  About  halfway,  marching  right  straight  on — Sim  White 
and  all — every  man  of  Jem  ready  to  die  for  his  country.  Mr 
White  couldn't  do  more  than  slip  out  of  the  ranks,  to  tell  me 
how  he  come  to  be  there,  instead  of  waiting  on  me  hum  from 
Miss  Derwent's  to-night,  when  Captain  Durkee  called  arter 
him." 

"  Then  you  saw  my  son  ?"  whispered  Mrs.  Durkee,  drawing 
close  to  the  old  maid  ;  "  how  did  he  look  ?  du  tell  me  !" 

"  Brave  as  a  lion,  Miss  Durkee  ;  except  Sim  White,  thera 
wasn't  a  man  to  match  him  in  the  hull  company.  '  Feller  citi 
zens,  do  your  duty/  says  I,  stopping  Gineral  Washington  as 
they  come  in  sight." 

"  We  will — God  help  us,  and  we  will  !  Tell  our  women  folks 
at  Forty  Fort  to  keep  a  good  heart  ;  every  man  here'll  die  in 
his  tracks  afore  the  enemy  reaches  them." 

Aunt  Polly  drew  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her  eyes  as  she 
said  this  ;  her  words  were  answered  by  a  simultaneous  sob  ;  even 

22 


338  MAEY      DEE  WENT. 

the  children  began  to  look  wistfully  at  each  other  through  their 
tears. 

"By  and  by,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  "you'll  hear 'em  beginning. 
Lord  a'  massy  on  us,  that's  a  shot  1" 

A  low  cry  ran  through  the  crowd  ;  then  a  drawing  in  of  the 
breath,  and  a  deep  hush.  Faces,  tearful  before,  became  deathly 
pale  now  ;  the  old  women  locked  their  withered  hands,  and  sent 
dumb  prayers  to  heaven  ;  the  children  huddled  together  and 
began  to  cry. 

"  That's  an  awful  sound,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  looking  over  the 
crowd.  "  Let  every  mother  as  has  got  a  son  up  yonder,  and 
every  woman  as  has  got  a  husband  tu  lose,  kneel  down  with  me 
and  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  ;  we  women  folks  can't  fight,  and  I 
don't  know  nothing  else  that  we  can  do.  Lord  a'  massy  on  us«l'; 

They  fell  upon  their  knees — old  women,  young  wives,  and  little 
children — uttering  broken  fragments  of  prayer,  and  quaking  to 
the  sound  of  each  volley  that  sw^pt  down  the  forest.  At  first 
the  shots  fell  steadily  and  at  intervals  ;  then  volley  succeeded 
volley  ;  hoarse  cries,  the  more  terrible  from  their  faintuess  ;  then 
the  awful  war-whoop  rose  loud  and  fierce,  sweeping  all  lesser 
sounds  before  it. 

The  words  of  prayer  froze  on  those  ashen  lips  ;  wild  eyes 
looked  into  each  other  for  one  awful  moment ;  the  horror  of  that 
sound  struck  even  anguish  dumb  ;  the  shots  died  away,  fainter 
and  fainter  ;  a  moment's  hush,  and  then  louder,  shriller,  and  ap 
proaching  the  fort,  came  another  whoop,  prolonged  into  a  sharp 

yell. 

Old  Mrs.  Durkee  rose  from  her  knees  ;  her  voipe  rang  out 
with  fearful  clearness  over  the  crowd  : 

"  Mothers,  orphans,  and  widows,  lift  your  faces  to  heaven,  for 
nothing  but  Almighty  God  can  help  us  now  1" 


THE      BATTLE-FIELD.  339 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE     BATTLE-FIELD. 

FIRED  with  stern  enthusiasm,  three  hundred  men — a  large 
proportion  of  them  grey  haired  and  beyond  their  prime,  the  rest 
brave  boys — had  filed  out  from  the  fort  and  organized  on  the 
banks  of  a  small  stream,  which  winds  its  way  from  the  moun 
tains  and  falls  into  the  Susquehanna,  above  Kingston.  Six  com 
panies  marched  from  the  fort,  and  here  the  civil  officers  and  jus 
tices  of  the  court  from  Wilkesbarre  joined  them.  After  a  brief 
consultation,  Captain  Durkee,  Ransom,  and  Lieutenants  Ross 
and  Wells,  were  sent  forward  to  reconnoitre.  As  their  horses 
thundered  off,  the  Wyoming  companies  approached  separately, 
and  filed  into  columns  ;  there  was  the  pallor  of  stern  courage  in 
every  face  ;  a  gleam  of  desperate  energy  in  every  eye. 

The  march  commenced  ;  steadily  and  eagerly  that  little  body 
of  patriots  moved  forward  ;  the  hot  sun  poured  down  upon 
them  ;  the  unequal  plain  broke  the  regularity  of  their  march  ; 
but  the  steady  tramp  of  their  approach  never  faltered  ;  the 
youngest  boy  in  the  ranks  grew  braver  as  he  passed  the  fort 
where  his  mother  watched,  and  turned  his  face  to  the  enemy  ; 
old,  grey-headed  men  lifted  their  bent  frames  and  grew  eagle- 
eyed,  as  they  looked  back  towards  the  shelter  of  their  dames, 
and  onward  for  the  foe. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  they  came  in  sight  of  Wintermoot's 
Fort.  The  enemy  was  prepared  to  receive  them  :  Colonel  John 
Butler  and  his  Rangers  occupied  the  banks  of  the  river  between 
them  and  the  fort,  and  all  the  black,  marshy  plain,  stretching  to 
the  mountains,  was  alive  with  savages,  led  on  by  Gi-en-gwa-tah 
and  Queen  Esther.  Indian  marksmen  stood  at  intervals  along  the 
line,  and  Johnson's  Royal  Greens  formed  on  Col.  Butler's  right. 

The  Butlers  had  chosen  their  own  battle-ground — a  level 


34:0  MARY      BEEWENT. 

plain,  covered  witli  shrub  oaks  and  yellow  pines,  with  patches 
of  cultivation  between. 

The  Americans  halted.  For  one  moment,  there  was  a  dead, 
solemn  pause.  Col.  Zebulon  Butler  spurred  his  horse,  and  rode 
in  front  of  his  lines  ;  he  lifted  his  hand — his  voice  rang  like  a 
trumpet  from  man  to  man. 

"  Men,  yonder  is  the  enemy.  We  came  out  to  fight,  not  for 
liberty,  but  for  life  itself,  and,  what  is  dearer,  to  preserve  our 
homes  from  conflagration,  and  women  and  children  from  the 
tomahawk.  Stand  firm  the  first  shock,  and  the  Indians  will  give 
way.  Every  man  to  his  duty  I" 

There  was  no  shout,  no  outcry  of  enthusiasm,  but  a  stern  fire 
burned  in  those  old  men's  eyes,  and  the  warrior  boys  grew  white 
with  intense  desire  for  action.  The  brave  leader  wheeled  his 
horse,  and  fronted  the  enemy.  His  sword  flashed  upward — three 
hundred  uncouth  weapons  answered  it,  and  the  battle  commenced, 
for  against  all  that  fearful  odds,  the  Americans  fired  first,  obey 
ing  their  orders  steadily,  and  advancing  a  step  at  each  volley. 

The  Tory  leader  met  the  shock,  and  thundered  it  back  again. 
His  plumes  and  military  trappings  were  all  cast  aside  ;  a  crimson 
handkerchief  girded  his  forehead,  and  he  fought  like  any  common 
soldier,  covered  with  dust  and  blackened  with  smoke,  while  his 
son,  who  held  no  other  command,  galloped  from  rank  to  rank 
carrying  his  orders. 

But  notwithstanding  the  fierce  valor  of  their  leader  and  the 
discipline  of  those  troops,  the  charge  made  by  men  fighting  for 
their  wives  and  little  ones  was  too  impetuous  for  resistance. 
The  British  lines  fell  back  after  the  third  charge.  He  threw 
himself  before  them  like  a  madman,  rallied  them,  and  gained  his 
own  again.  Then  the  fight  grew  terrible  on  both  sides  ;  the 
Americans,  brave  as  they  were,  began  to  feel  the  power  of  num 
bers. 

A  flanking  party  of  Indians,  concealed  in  the  shrub  oaks, 
poured  death  into  their  ranks.  In  the  midst  of  this  iron  rain 
Captain  Durkee  was  shot  down,  leading  on  his  men.  The  Indian 


THE      BATTLE-FIELD.  341 

sharp-shootors  saw  him  fall,  and  set  up  a  fiendish  yell  that  pierced 
the  walls  of  Forty  Fort,  and  made  every  soul  within  quake  with 
horror. 

The  strife  was  almost  equal.  On  the  left  wing,  the  force  under 
Colonel  Denison  fought  desperately  against  the  Indians,  but  they 
outflanked  him  at  last,  and  pouring  from  the  swamp,  fell  like 
bloodhounds  on  his  rear — a  raking  fire  swept  his  men. 

Thus  beset  by  the  savages  behind  and  the  Tories  in  front,  he 
thought  to  escape  the  iron  tempest  by  a  change  of  position.  In  the 
heavy  turmoil,  his  order  was  mistaken,  and  the  word  "  retreat "  went 
hissing  through  his  ranks.  It  flew  like  fire  from  lip  to  lip,  striking 
a  panic  as  it  fell.  The  British  lines  already  wavered,  another 
moment,  and  they  would  have  yielded.  But  that  terrible  mistake 
gave  them  the  victory.  As  Denison's  division  fell  into  confusion, 
they  rallied,  pressed  forward,  and  the  battle  became  a  rout. 

In  vain  Zebulon  Butler  plunged  into  their  midst,  and  riding 
like  a  madman  through  a  storm  of  bullets,  entreated  them  to 
rally. 

"  Don't  leave  me,  my  children  !"  he  cried  ;  "  one  blow  more — 
a  bold  front,  and  the  victory  is  ours  1" 

It  was  all  in  vain.  The  ranks  were  already  scattered,  the  In 
dians  leapt  in  among  them  like  ravenous  wild  beasts.  The  cap 
tains  were  cut  down  while  striving  to  rally  their  companies. 
Tomahawks  and  bullets  rained  and  flew  after  them  as  they  fled. 
Some  were  pierced  with  stone-headed  lances  ;  some  fell  with  their 
heads  cleft  ;  some  broke  away  towards  Forty  Fort,  or  making 
for  the  river,  plunged  in,  and  struggled  against  the  rushing 
stream  for  their  lives. 

No  beasts  of  prey  were  ever  hunted  down  like  those  unhappy 
men.  They  were  shot  down  everywhere — in  the  grain  fields,  in  the 
swamp.  Regardless  of  all  cries  for  mercy,  they  were  chased  to 
the  river  bank,  dragged  out  from  the  bushes  in  which  they 
sought  to  hide  themselves,  even  back  from  the  waves,  or  beaten 
and  slaughtered  among  the  stones  which  smoked  with  the  warm 
blood,  poured  over  them.  Thus  the  pursuit  raged  opposite 


34:2  MARY      DEKWENT. 

Monockonok  Island.  Towards  Forty  Fort  scenes  of  equal  hor 
ror  were  perpetrated.  The  Indians  rushed,  leaping  and  howling, 
like  hungry  wolves  over  the  plain,  cutting  off  retreat  to  the  fort, 
and  those  poor  fellows  who  turned  that  way  were  shot  and  hewed 
down  in  scores,  or  dragged  back  prisoners,  and  hurled  among 
the  savages  for  future  torture. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

THE     HUSBAND     AND     WIFE. 

FOR  a  long  time  Catharine  Montour  and  her  daughter  re 
mained  absorbed  in  painful  reflection  amid  the  silence  of  the 
tent  ;  then,  as  their  thoughts  began  to  revert  to  surrounding  ob 
jects,  the  entire  stillness  reigning  upon  the  island,  roused  them  at 
the  same  moment. 

"  Mother,  how  is  this  ?  I  hear  no  sound  abroad  !"  exclaimed 
Tahmeroo,  starting  from  her  mother's  arms,  and  looking  appre 
hensively  in  her  face. 

Catharine  rose  to  her  feet,  and  went  out  into  the  camp.  The 
island  was  wholly  deserted,  save  by  a  few  squaws,  and  the  usual 
guard  around  her  tent.  In  a  moment,  she  returned  with  some 
thing  of  former  energy  in  her  manner. 

"  There  is  treachery  intended  here,"  she  said  ;  "  not  an  Indian 
is  on  the  island.  This  bloodshed  must  be  prevented.  Hark  ! 
there  are  shots.  I  hear  distant  drums — that  yell  1  God  help 
the  poor  souls  that  must  perish  this  day  I" 

"  But  what  can  we  do,  mother  ?     The  fight  rages  now  !" 

"  Give  me  time  to  think,"  returned  Catharine,  clasping  her 
hands  over  her  forehead,  and  striving  to  force  back  her  old  forti 
tude. 

"  Oh,  may  God  help  rne  !  that  angel  girl  on  the  island  !   Tah- 


THE      HUSBAND      AJSTD      WIFE.  343 

meroo,  we  must  save  her.     I  have  promised — but  the  warriors 
leave  me — that  bracelet  may  not  be  enough  1" 

"  Mother,  I  will  preserve  her  life  with  my  own — let  us  go,  for 
this  will  be  a  terrible  day.  Come,  mother,  come  !" 

"  Listen  I"  exclaimed  Catharine  ;  "  I  hear  the  sound  of  oars." 

"  It  may  be  Butler — oh,  if  it  is  !"  cried  Tahmeroo,  the  thought 
of  her  husband  always  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

Catharine  hastened  towards  the  entrance  of  the  tent,  but  at 
that  moment  the  hangings  were  put  aside,  and  the  missionary 
stood  before  them. 

"  Woman — Lady  Granby  1"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  do  you  here 
— death  and  blood  are  all  around — beware  that  it  does  not 
rest  on  your  soul.  Stop  the  progress  of  your  savages — save  the 
innocent." 

"  My  God!  I  am  helpless!"  broke  from  Catharine's  lips.  "Go, 
Tahmeroo,  go  at  once  and  find  the  queen  or  the  chief — hasten,  if 
you  would  not  have  this  murder  on  our  heads.  Oh,  sir,  I  am 
almost  powerless  here  ;  but  what  a  weak  woman  can  do,  I 
will." 

Tahmeroo  bounded  away  like  a  wild  animal,  while  Catharine 
sank  into  a  seat,  unnerved  as  she  had  not  been  for  years. 

"  This  is  no  time  for  weakness,"  exclaimed  the  missionary, 
almost  sternly;  "you  have  grown  too  familiar  with  scenes  of 
blood  to  shrink  here,  '  lady.'  " 

"But  I  am  unusually  helpless  now,"  she  said,  clcspondingly ; 
"  my  power  is  gone." 

"  Is  not  Gi-en-gwa-tah  your  wedded  slave  ? — is  not  your  will 
a  law  among  his  people  ?" 

"It  was,  while  I  was  reckless  and  strong  to  maintain  it;  but 
now,  alas!  I  am  only  a  poor  weak  woman  !  Since  we  first  met 
on  the  banks  of  this  river,  thoughts  have  awakened  in  my  bosom 
which  had  slept  for  years.  This  terrible  life  shocks  me  to  the 
soul,  and  the  chief  despises  what  he  deems  cowardice.  Queen 
Esther  has  regained  her  old  power,  and  Walter  Butler,  my 
child's  husband,  urges  them  on  like  a  demon.  They  have  leffc 


344  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

me  here  without  a  word;  heaven  only  knows  what  the  end  will 
be." 

"  You  must  do  something — do  not  give  way;  there  is  not  a 
moment  to  spare;  human  life  is  at  stake  1" 

"  It  is  like  a  dream,"  said  Catharine,  vaguely;  "the  present 
is  gone  from  me — your  voice  carries  me  back — back  to  my  early 
youth.  Where  did  I  hear  it  then  ?" 

"  This  is  no  time  for  dreams,  lady,"  cried  the  missionary. 
"  Only  rouse  yourself — come  away.  Do  you  hear  those  shots — 
that  yell  ?" 

But  Catharine  yielded  more  completely  to  the  power  which 
dulled  her  senses — she  could  realize  nothing;  years  rolled  back 
their  troubled  tempest  from  her  brain;  she  was  once  more  in  her 
English  home.  Even  the  warwhoop  of  her  tribe  could  not  arouse 
her. 

"  Will  you  not  move  ?"  groaned  the  missionary.  "  The  whole 
valley  will  be  slaughtered — that  innocent  child  on  the  island  will 
be  killed.  A  second  time,  Caroline,  as  you  value  your  soul,  save 
her  !" 

"  That  child — the  girl  with  an  angel's  face,  and  that  form/' 
said  Catharine,  dreamily,  but  with  a  look  of  affright,  as  if  she 
were  just  awakening.  "Bless  her,  Heaven  bless  that  angel  girl!" 

"  Can  you  realize  nothing  ?  Then  I  must  say  that  which  will 
waken,  or  drive  you  wholly  mad  !  Woman — Lady  Granby — 
fly — save  that  girl — for  as  there  is  a  God  to  judge  between  us 
two,  she  is  your  own  daughter." 

Catharine  sat  motionless,  staring  at  him  vaguely  with  her 
heavy  eyes. 

"  I  have  no  daughter  but  Tahmeroo,"  she  said;  "and  she  is 
only  half  my  child  now." 

"  I  tell  you  Mary  Derwent  is  your  daughter — the  child  whom 
you  nearly  killed  in  your  insanity  !  and  believed  dead." 

Catharine  started  up  with  a  cry,  so  long'  and  wild  that  it  made 
the  missionary  start  almost  with  terror. 
"  And  you,"  she  gasped;  "  you" 


THE     HUSBAND      AND     WIFE.  34:5 

"  I  am  Varnham,  yonr  husband." 

She  fell  back  with  the  dull  heavy  fall  of  a  corpse,  burying  her 
face  in  her  robe.  The  missionary  raised  her,  trembling,  and 
shrinking  both  from  her  and  himself — 

"  Caroline — my  wife — look  up.  Or  has  God  been  merciful, 
and  is  this  death  ?" 

"My  husband — my  husband — is  dead;  he  is  dead — drowned, 
in  the  deep,  deep,  unfathomable  sea,  years  and  years  ago." 

"  Caroline,  do  not  longer  deceive  yourself.  Look  at  this 
picture,  this  ring;  do  you  recognize  me  now  ?" 

"  And  Heaven  has  not  blasted  me  1"  she  moaned.   "  I  live  still !" 

"  Your  daughter — our  child — Caroline !  They  will  murder  her !" 

"  My  daughter  !"  She  rose  to  her  feet  again  and  repeated 
the  words  with  a  gasp,  as  if  she  were  shaking  a  great  weight 
from  her  heart.  "  My  daughter!" 

"  Save  her.  The  battle  rages  close  by  the  island  where  she 
lives.  Go  with  me;  your  presence  alone  will  protect  her." 

The  anguish  of  his  tone  might  have  roused  marble  to  con 
sciousness;  it  brought  back  Catharine's  tottering  reason. 

".Child — Mary — daughter — I  will  go,  I  will  go.  At  least  we 
can  die  together!  I  and  that  child  whom  the  angels  loved, 
but  would  not  take." 

She  rushed  from  the  tent,  followed  by  Varnham.  They  met 
Tahmeroo,  who  had  just  landed. 

"They  are  near  the  fort,"  she  cried,  "fighting  like  wolves. 
The  chief  and  Queen  Esther  are  in  the  thickest  of  the  battle, 
and  Butler,  too,  my  husband — oh,  my  husband!" 

"  Fly  to  her,  and  say  her  mother  is  coming,  Varnham.  Man 
or  ghost,  help  me,"  cried  Catharine.  "  I  cannot  speak — I  cannot 
even  have  your  forgiveness  ;  but  we  will  save  her,  and  then  God 
may  be  good,  and  let  us  die." 

He  rushed  to  his  canoe  without  a  word,  and  sped  down  the 
waters  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow.  All  of  Catharine's  strength 
came  back.  With  resolute  command  she  put  off  the  madness 
which  had  begun  to  creep  over  her,  and  turned  to  Tahmeroo. 


346  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  Follow  me  to  the  island  near  the  fort.  There  is  a  young 
girl  there.  Oh,  my  God,  my  God,  let  me  see  her  once  morel 
Let  me  call  her  child,  and  die." 

They  pushed  off  in  their  canoe,  and  kept  it  steadily  down  the 
stream,  until  within  a  mile  of  the  island. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  crimson  of  the  sunset  deluged 
the  western  sky,  but  the  whole  horizon  was  dark  with  smoke. 
The  report  of  fire-arms — the  echo  of  bullets — the  shrieks  of  the 
dying,  filled  the  air  with  awful  clamor,  and  surged  heavily  over 
the  waters. 

"  My  husband,  my  husband  !"  moaned  Tahmeroo. 

Catharine  never  spoke,  but  watched  eagerly  for  a  sight  of  the 
island.  She  scarcely  breathed,  and  her  eyes  were  terrible  in 
their  strained  gaze. 

At  that  moment  a  party  of  Indians  appeared  on  the  western 
shore.  They  pointed  to  the  canoe  with  angry  gestures.  Sud 
denly  they  sprang  into  the  water,  like  wild  beasts  and  swam 
towards  the  canoe. 

"  Mother,"  cried  Tahmeroo,  "  they  are  coming  here.  Queen 
Esther  has  sent  them  to  murder  us  I" 

A  dozen  hands  grasped  the  frail  bark,  and  dusky  faces,  terri 
ble  with  war-paint,  glared  on  the  two  women. 

"Back!"  exclaimed  Catharine,  rising  up  in  the  canoe,  and 
drawing  her  knife;  "dare  to  disobey  me  and  you  shall  be  sent 
from  the  tribe.  Catharine  Montour  has  spoken." 

"  The  chief  commands;  Catharine  Montour  must  go  on  shore." 

"  Yes,  on  the  island  yonder,  but  nowhere  else.  Tell  Butler, 
your  white  chief,  that  he  will  find  me  there." 

They  wrested  the  knife  from  her  grasp,  and  sprang  into  the 
canoe,  offering  no  harm  to  either  of  the  two  women,  but  urging 
the  boat  to  the  shore,  heedless  of  cries  and  expostulations. 

"  God,  oh  God,  my  child  1"  groaned  Catharine,  from  between 
her  clenched  teeth;  "  lost,  lost  1" 

When  they  reached  the  shore,  the  savages  forced  them  out  of 
the  boat,  and  with  their  tomahawks  stove  it  to  atoms.  Then 


ASSAULT     AND     CONFLAGRATION.  347 

they  rushed  off  with  a  whoop  that  apprised  their  employer  of  his 

triumph. 

"  This  is  Butler's  work  !"  cried  Catharine.     "  They  are  lost!" 
"  No,  mother,  come,  we  will  go  on  foot — it  is  not  far — there 

may  be  a  boat  near  the  island." 

They  hastened  along  the  shore  with  frantic  speed  through  the 

gloom  of  the  coming  night,  pausing  neither  for  words  nor  breath, 

clasping  each  other's  hands  closer  as  the  breeze  bore  nearer  and 

nearer  the  sounds  of  conflict. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

ASSAULT      AND      CONFLAGRATION. 

THE  storm  of  battle  was  over,  but  the  scenes  that  followed 
were  more  terrible  by  far  than  the  first  shock  of  arms  had  been  ; 
for  now  murder  ran  red-handed  over  the  plains,  and  the  demons 
of  victory  were,  like  wild  beasts,  ravenous  for  more  blood. 

Along  that  vast  plain  there  was  but  one  hope  of  escape  ;  a 
broad  swamp,  teeming  with  Indians,  lay  between  them  and  the 
mountains,  who  covered  the  ground  above  Forty  Fort,  and  cut 
off  the  wretched  men  who  turned  that  way  ;  but  Monockonok 
Island  was  almost  in  a  line  with  the  battle-field,  and,  though  the 
river  was  swollen  from  a  late  freshet,  to  a  good  swimmer,  a  pas 
sage  was  not  impossible  ;  from  thence  they  escaped  up  a  gulley 
in  the  hills  on  the  other  side  ;  and  to  this  point  the  patriots 
made,  in  the  frenzy  of  desperation. 

As  Catharine  Montour  and  Tahmeroo  came  down  the  river, 
urged  to  breathless  speed  by  the  shrieks  of  dying  men  and  the 
fiendish  yells  of  their  captors,  fugitive  after  fugitive  fled  to  the 
water  ;  some  were  shot  down  before  their  eyes  ;  some  making 
superhuman  efforts,  swam  for  the  island,  and  dashing  across, 
cither  escaped  or  perished  on  the  other  side  ;  the  savages  fol- 


34:8  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

lowed  them  like  demons  ;  but  their  human  game  was  too  thick 
in  the  bushes  of  the  shore  for  individual  pursuit  upon  the  river  ; 
and  when  a  man  escaped  that  way,  the  painted  hounds  sent  a 
derisive  yell  after  him,  and  turned  to  other  bloody  work. 

The  Tories  were  more  relentless  still  ;  to  them  kindred  blood 
gave  zest  to  murder,  and  many  a  brother  fell  on  that  awful  shore 
by  the  hands  that  had  helped  rock  his  cradlo. 

To  this  spot  General  Murray  came,  while  Catharine  was  toil 
ing  towards  it  in  the  gathering  twilight.  He  had  appealed  to 
the  Butlers,  and  expostulated  with  the  savages,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
he  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  force  bloodhounds  from  their 
scent,  as  persuade  these  monsters  from  their  horrid  work. 
So  desperately  were  they  urged  by  insatiate  passion,  that 
torches  were  applied  to  their  own  fort,  that  the  red  glare  of 
conflagration  might  give  them  light  for  more  murder,  when  the 
sun  refused  longer  to  lookdownupon  their  sickening  cruelties. 

Hopeless  of  doing  good,  and  shocked  to  the  soul  by  scenes 
into  which  he  had  been  inadvertently  thrown,  Murray  turned  to 
the  island,  hoping  to  find  the  missionary  there,  and  unite  with 
him  in  some  project  to  save  the  prisoners  yet  left  alive. 

As  he  stood  upon  the  shore,  looking  vaguely  for  some  means 
of  conveyance,  a  figure  rushed  by  him,  plunged  into  the  water, 
and  swam  for  life  towards  the  nearest  point  of  land  ;  a  half 
dozen  Indians  bounded  after  the  man,  shrieking  and  yelling  out 
their  disappointment.  Directly,  a  young  man,  black  with  pow 
der  and  fierce  as  a  tiger,  sprang  in  among  the  savages,  crying  out  : 

"Have  you  got  him  ?  Give  me  the  scalp — twenty-five  guineas 
to  the  man  who  holds  his  scalp  !" 

The  Indians  pointed  to  the  struggling  man,  now  but  dimly 
seen  in  the  smoky  twilight  ;  Butler  uttered  a  fierce  oath,  snatched 
a  rifle  from  the  nearest  savage,  and  levelling  it  with  deliberate 
aim,  fired — sending  an  oath  forwards  with  the  bullet. 

The  fugitive  sunk,  and  his  disappearance  was  greeted  with 
another  yell  from  the  savages  ;  but  a  moment  after  the  head  re 
appeared,  and  Edward  Clark  struggled  up  the  banks  of  the  wil- 


ASSAULT     AND     CONFLAGRATION.  349 

low  cove  and  went  towards  the  cabin,  staggering  either  from  ex 
haustion  or  some  wound. 

"  Pve  missed  him,"  cried  Butler,  tossing  the  rifle  back  to  its 
owner  ;  "  but  we'll  save  that  island,  and  all  that's  on  it,  for  our 
night  carouse.  There  is  a  little  hunchbacked  imp  that  you  may 
have  for  your  own  humors,  but  as  for  that  young  rascal,  and  a 
girl  that  we  shall  find  there,  I  don't  give  them  up  to  any  one. 
Now  off  again  ;  here  are  more  rats  creeping  to  the  river." 

Murray  had  stepped  behind  a  tree  as  the  party  came  up  and 
rushed  away  again,  yelling  and  whooping  as  they  went.  He  was 
about  to  throw  off  his  coat,  and  attempt  to  spring  into  the  river, 
and  make  for  the  island,  when  he  was  startled  by  footsteps,  and 
the  quick,  heavy  breathing  of  persons  in  his  close  neighborhood. 
He  peered  among  the  thick  trees  that  towered  around  him,  but 
could  discern  no  one,  though  the  sound  of  murmuring  voices 
came  distinctly  to  his  ear. 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  a  clear,  female  voice,  in  accents  of  deep 
feeling,  "thank  God,  the  horrid  work  has  not  commenced  here  ; 
let  us  hasten  to  the  fort — we  may  yet  be  in  time  !" 

"  No,  mother,  no,"  replied  a  voice  of  sadder  melody  ;  "  if  there 
is  more  bloodshed,  it  will  be  done  on  that  little  island.  If  my 
husband  has  a  part  in  this,  the  fair  girl  whom  I  have  seen  gliding 
among  the  trees  yonder,  day  after  day,  waiting  his  coming,  that 
girl  will  be  his  victim  ;  she  must  have  angered  him  in  some  way. 
That  beautiful  girl  was  to  have  been  married  to-night,  mother. 
Can  you  think  why  Butler  should  seek  vengeance  on  her  ?  Oh, 
you  do  not  know  all !  You  have  not  heard  him  whisper  her 
name  in  his  sleep,  sometimes  mingling  it  with  endearments,  and 
again  with  curses.  You  have  not  felt  his  heart  beating  beneath 
your  arm,  and  known  that  it  was  burning  with  love,  or  hate  born 
of  love,  for  another.  But  why  do  we  stand  here  ?  I  do  not 
wish  her  to  die,  and  he  shall  not  take  her  alive.  Let  us  go  and 
give  them  warning  ;  is  there  no  boat — nothing  that  will  take  us 
over  V 

"  Alas,  no  !  what  can  we  do  ?" 


350  MAKY      DERWENT. 

"  Mother,  help  me  pull  off  my  robe  ;  I  can  swim." 

"  Father  of  heaven  !  No  ;  the  distance  is  beyond  your 
strength — the  water  is  very  deep  I"  exclaimed  the  first  voice 
in  alarm. 

"Mother,  he  shall  not  kill  that  angel  girl — he  shall  not  have 
the  other.  I  am  very  strong  ;  I  can  swim  to  that  island  ;  see, 
now  the  lights  stream  upon  the  water  ;  it  does  not  look  so  dan 
gerous.  Let  me  try  !" 

"  Is  there  no  other  way  ?"  exclaimed  the  answering  voice. 
"  I  cannot  consent  to  this  risk  j  it  may  be  death  to  you,  my 
child  1" 

But  while  the  words  were  on  her  mother's  lips,  Tahmeroo 
flung  off  her  robe,  and  with  a  wild  leap,  plunged  far  out  into  the 
waves,  calling  back  : 

"  Stay  there — do  not  move — I  will  come  back  with  a  canoe." 

"  My  child — oh,  Father  of  mercies,  she  is  lost  !" 

"  Not  so,  madam  ;  she  is  light  and  self-possessed — have  no 
fear,"  said  Murray,  stepping  out  from  the  shadow  in  which  he 
had  stood. 

Before  Catharine  could  turn,  or  had  distinctly  heard  his  voice, 
a  man  rushed  by  her,  with  the  bound  of  a  wild  animal,  and 
plunged  into  the  river.  Catharine  caught  one  glance  at  the 
wild  face,  but  before  she  could  catch  her  breath,  he  was  strug 
gling  with  the  current  and  his  pursuers  stood  upon  the  bank. 
The  men  were  both  white,  though  the  ferocity  of  fifty  savages 
broke  from  the  eyes  which  glared  down  upon  the  water,  where 
that  old  friend  was  struggling. 

"  Come  back,  Lieutenant  Shoemaker — come  back,"  cried  the 
man  upon  the  bank  ;  "  the  current  is  too  swift — you'll  be  lost  ; 
come  on  shore  and  I'll  protect  you." 

The  fugitive  turned.  That  man  had  fed  at  his  table ;  par 
taken  of  his  wealth  and  his  kindness  ;  he  belonged  to  the  Tory 
army,  and  a  word  from  him  was  safety.  He  was  almost 
sinking,  but  these  words  of  sweet  charity  brought  him  to  life 
again ;  and  swimming  back  to  the  shore,  he  held  up  his  trern- 


ASSAULT     AND     CONFLAGRATION.  351 

bling  hand  to  be  dragged  from  the  water.  "Windecker,  for  that 
was  the  demon's  name,  grasped  the  hand,  whirled  his  tomahawk 
aloof,  and  buried  it  in  that  noble  forehead,  uplifted  in  gratitude 
towards  him  1 

Catharine  Montour  uttered  a  shriek  of  horror  ;  the  fiend 
turned  his  face  towards  her  with  a  sickening  laugh,  and  lifting 
the  body  of  his  benefactor  half  from  the  water,  dashed  him  back, 
reddening  the  waves  with  his  blood,  and  shouting  : 

"  That's  the  way  to  serve  traitors  1" 

All  this  happened  so  suddenly  that  the  horror  was  perpetrated 
and  the  assassin  had  fled  while  Murray  and  Catharine  were 
stunned  by  the  shock. 

When  the  atrocity  came  upon  her  in  its  force,  Catharine  sat 
down  on  the  earth,  sick  and  trembling,  while  Murray  drew  his 
sword  to  cut  the  murderer  down  ;  but  he  plunged  into  the  bushes 
and  rushed  off  towards  the  fort,  which  was  now  one  vast  cloud 
of  lurid  smoke. 

Murray  returned  to  the  bank  just  as  Tahmeroo  shot  across  the 
river  in  Mary  Derwent's  little  craft,  which  she  found  in  the  cove. 

"  It  was  bravely  thought  of  1"  exclaimed  Murray,  stepping 
into  the  boat  and  drawing  Catharine  after  him  ;  "  they  must 
search  for  other  boats  and  this  will  give  us  time.  Ha  !  they 
have  completed  their  work  at  the  fort.  See  1" 

As  he  spoke,  a  volume  of  dusky  light  surged  heavily  across 
river,  and  a  spire  of  flame  shot  upwards,  quivering  and 
flashing,  and  flinging  off  smoke  and  embers,  till  the  forest  trees 
and  the  still  waters  gleamed  red  and  duskily  for  miles  about  the 
burning  fort.  The  poetry  of  Catharine  Montour's  nature  was 
aroused  by  the  fierce  solemnity  of  this  scene. 

"  See  !"  she  cried,  starting  to  her  feet  in  the  canoe,  and  point 
ing  down  the  river,  where  the  fire  reflected  itself  like  a  vast 
banner  of  scarlet,  torn,  and  mangled,  and  weltering  in  the  waters. 
"  See  !  the  very  river  seems  a-flame — the  woods  and  the  moun 
tains,  all  are  kindling  with  light.  Can  a  day  of  judgment  be 
more  terrible  than  that  ?" 


352  MAKY      DEE  WENT. 

She  stood  upright  as  she  spoke,  with  one  hand  pointing  down 
the  stream.  Her  crimson  robe  floated  out  on  the  wind,  and  the 
jewelled  serpent  about  her  brow  gleamed  like  a  living  thing  in 
the  red  light  which  lay  full  upon  her.  As  she  stood  there,  the 
very  priestess  of  the  scene,  her  extended  arm  was  grasped  until 
the  gemmed  bracelet  sunk  into  the  flesh,  and  a  face,  pale  and 
convulsed,  was  bent  to  hers. 

"  Woman — Caroline — Lady  Granby  I  speak  to  me."  The 
words  died  on  Murray's  lips;  he  remained  with  his  grasp  still 
fixed  on  her  arm,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  her  face,  speechless  as 
marble. 

A  wild,  beautiful  expression  of  joy  shot  over  Catharine  Mon- 
tour's  face  ;  her  heart  leaped  to  the  sound  of  her  own  name, 
and  she  started  as  if  to  fling  herself  upon  his  bosom.  The  im 
pulse  was  but  for  an  instant  ;  her  hand  had  quivered  down  to 
her  side,  but  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face,  it  became 
calm  and  tranquil  as  a  child's.  She  released  herself  gently  from 
his  grasp  and  sat  down. 

"  Grenville  Murray,"  she  said,  in  a  clear,  steady  voice  ;  "  for 
more  than  twenty  years  we  have  been  dead  to  each  other  ;  do 
not  disturb  the  ashes  of  the  past.  My  child — my  first-born  child 
is  in  danger  on  that  island.  Help  me  to  save  her,  and  then  let- 
is  part  again  forever  and  ever  I" 

The  words  were  yet  on  her  lips  when  a  bullet  whistled  from 
the  shore,  and  cut  away  the  ruby  crest  of  the  serpent  which  lay 
upon  her  temple. 

She  fell  forwards  at  Murray's  feet,  stunned,  but  not  otherwise 
injured.  A  moment,  and  she  lifted  her  head. 

"  Who  was  shot  ?  Was  he  killed  ?"  she  muttered,  drawing  her 
hand  over  her  eyes,  and  striving  to  sit  upright. 

"  The  gentleman  is  safe,  mother,"  said  Tahmeroo,  "  and  I — 
you  hear  me  speak — and  I  am  well." 

"  Bless  you,  my  brave  girl  I  Grenville  Murray,  why  are  we 
here  ?  There  is  death  all  around  us  !  On,  on  1" 

Murray  had  regained  his  self-command  ;  he  took  up  the  oar 


ASSAULT     AND     C  O  N  F  L  A  G  K  A  T  I  O  N  .  353 

which  Tahmeroo  had  dropped,  and  urged  the  canoe  forwards  with 
a  steadiness  that  belied  his  pale  face  and  trembling  haads.  Bullet 
after  bullet  cut  along  their  track  before  they  reached  the  island  ; 
but  the  distance  became  greater,  and  the  aim  of  their  pursuers 
was  more  uncertain. 

They  reached  the  little  cove  and  sprung  on  shore.  But  they 
had  scarcely  touched  the  green-sward,  when  the  flames  rushed 
up  from  the  burning  pile  in  a  bright,  lurid  sheet  of  fire,  reveal 
ing  the  opposite  shore,  and  the  forest  far  beyond,  as  if  a  volcano 
had  burst  among  the  mountains. 

"  Mother,  look  yonder  1"  said  Tahmeroo,  in  a  voice  full  of 
terror,  which  arose  to  little  above  a  husky  whisper,  and  she 
pointed  to  the  opposite  shore,  where  it  lay  in  the  full  glare  of 
the  burning  fort.  A  swarm  of  red  warriors  were  gathered  upon 
the  steep  banks,  and  lay  crouching  along  the  brink  of  the  river, 
like  a  nest  of  demons,  basking  in  the  fire-light  ;  and  there,  on 
the  spot  which  they  had  just  left,  she  saw  her  husband,  standing 
with  arms  in  his  hands,  stamping  with  rage  as  he  saw  them  from 
the  distance. 

"  We  have  landed  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  island,"  said  Ca 
tharine  Montour,  after  a  hasty  glance  at  the  demons  swarming 
on  the  shore,  and  securing  the  cable  of  another  boat  that  lay 
moored  in  the  cove.  "  Tahmeroo,  remain  with  this  gentleman 
and  warn  the  people  at  the  house,  while  I  take  the  boat  to  the 
opposite  side — there  will  be  no  escape  within  the  range  of  their 
rifles." 

"  Caroline — Lady  Granby,  this  must  not  be,"  said  Murray,  evi 
dently  forgetting  their  relative  positions  in  the  deep  interest  of 
the  moment.  "  How  are  you  to  escape  the  rifle-balls  which 
those  fiends  may  level  at  you,  for  they  are  mad  with  blood,  and 
fire  on  friends  and  foes  alike.  I  will  take  the  boats  round,  while 
you  and  this  young  woman  warn  the  people  up  yonder." 

The  familiar  name  which  Murray  had  unconsciously  used, 
melted  like  dew  over  the  heart  that  listened  ;  but  Catharine 
struggled  against  the  feelings  which  almost  made  a  child  of  her, 

9.3 


354:  MARY      DEE  WE  NT. 

even  in  that  hour  of  danger.  The  thoughts  of  other  years  were 
swelling  in  her  bosom,  but  there  was  calmness  and  decision  in 
her  voice  as  she  answered  him. 

"  The  danger  would  be  alike  to  either,"  she  said  ;  "  nor  could 
one  person  row  the  canoe  and  secure  the  others  at  the  same  time. 
I  will  go  with  you.  My  child,  hasten  to  the  house  and  warn 
them  of  their  danger — keep  within  the  bushes  as  you  pass  ;  send 
them  down  to  the  shore  in  small  numbers  ;  and,  mark  me,  avoid 
bustle  or  appearance  of  alarm.  Do  you  understand,  and  have 
you  courage  to  go  alone  ?" 

The  unhappy  young  woman  stood  with  her  face  turned  towards 
the  shore  ;  tears  rolled  down  her  cheek  and  dropped  on  her 
clasped  hands,  while  her  mother  was  speaking. 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  understand,  and  will  save  that  poor  girl — • 
though  he  kill  me,  I  will  save  her.  I  know  the  path  ;  I  have  trod 
den  it  before,"  she  replied,  in  a  sorrowful  and  abstracted  voice. 

A  low  howl,  like  the  prolonged  cry  of  a  pack  of  hungry  wolves, 
fired  her  to  action  once  more.  She  looked  on  her  mother. 
"  They  have  found  some  means  of  crossing,"  she  said ;  "  they 
will  murder  us  when  they  see  us  warning  their  prey  ;  but  I  will 
do  it.  Kiss  me,  mother— farewell  1" 

One  wild  kiss,  a  quick  embrace,  and  Tahmeroo  dashed  up  the 

th  with  the  bound  of  a  wild  deer. 

Catharine  Montour  turned  wildly  to  her  companion.  "  That 
cry  I  In — in  !"  she  cried,  vehemently,  springing  into  the 
canoe.  "  They  are  upon  the  water  ;  let  them  fire  upon  us  if 
they  will.  Give  me  an  oar,  I  can  use  one  hand.  Father  of 
Heaven  I  Did  you  hear  that  shout  ?" 

Murray  saw  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost.  He  sprang  to  her 
side  and  steered  round  the  island  as  rapidly  as  her  impatient 
spirit  could  demand,  though  his  superior  coolness  kept  them  from 
danger  which  she  would  have  braved.  By  rowing  close  within 
the  shadow  of  the  island,  he  escaped  observation  from  the  In 
dians  ;  and  those  two  persons,  who  had  been  a  destiny  each  to 
the  other,  sat  alone,  side  by  side,  without  speaking  a  word,  and 


ASSAULT     AND     CONFLAGRATION  355 

with  scarcely  a  thought  of  each  other.  The  lives  of  more  than 
fifty  persons  were  in  peril,  and  among  them  Catharine  had  two 
children — the  Indian  girl,  already  on  her  path  of  mercy,  and 
the  gentle  deformed,  whom  she  was  to  call  child  for  the  first 
time. 

They  landed  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  island.  Murray  was 
drawing  the  canoes  half  on  land,  while  Catharine  dashed  forward, 
expecting  every  instant  to  meet  Tahmeroo  with  the  family  she 
had  come  to  save.  But  instead  of  the  females  she  sought,  a  half 
dozen  men,  white  as  death,  with  bloodshot  eyes,  and  hair  erect 
with  terror,  dashed  by  aiming  for  the  gully  on  the  eastern  shore. 
They  were  fugitives  from  the  battle,  and  reeled  with  the  terrible 
exhaustion  of  swimming  the  river  as  they  passed  her  with  wild, 
staggering  bounds. 

They  saw  her  Indian  dress,  swerved  with  a  despairing  cry,  and 
fell  upon  their  faces. 

"  On,  on  I"  cried  Catharine,  waving  her  hand  as  she  ran  to 
wards  the  house  ;  "  I  am  no  enemy.  In  the  name  of  Heaven, 
gave  yourselves  I"  * 

They  started  up  again,  and  rushed  to  the  river — saw  the 
canoes  half  in  the  water,  half  upon  the  land — pushed  them  into 
the  stream,  dashed  Murray  aside,  and  sent  him  reeling  back 
against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  when  he  attempted  to  interfere,  and 
tumbling  over  each  other  in  desperate  haste,  pushed  off,  leaving 
the  family  on  the  island,  and  those  who  had  come  to  save  them, 
in  a  more  desperate  situation  than  ever. 


356  MARY     DERWENT. 

CHAPTER    XLVII. 

THE     WARNING     AND     FLIGHT. 

ALL  that  day,  Mary  Derwent,  her  grandmother,  and  sister  re 
mained  alone  in  the  house.  They  heard  the  mustering  battle,  the 
sharp  strife,  and  the  scattering  horrors  of  the  rout  that  followed. 
Towards  nightfall,  the  plain  grew  foggy  from  the  smoke  which 
began  to  rise  and  spread  from  the  smouldering  fort.  The  yells 
and  sharp  rifle  shots  came  close  to  the  shore,  and  rang  with  hor 
rible  distinctness  over  the  island. 

The  two  girls  were  on  their  knees  by  the  window,  looking  out 
between  the  fragments  of  prayer  which  fell  from  their  pale  lips, 
and  quaking  from  soul  to  limb  as  the  savage  yells  came  nearer 
and  nearer  the  shore. 

Mother  Derwent  was  affected  differently,  and  bringing  down 
an  old  rusty  rifle  that  had  belonged  to  her  son,  set  to  work  and 
scoured  out  the  lock,  and  wiped  the  muzzle  with  a  piece  of  oiled 
deer-skin,  which  she  afterwards  wrapped  around  her  bullets  when 
she  was  ready  to  load  ;  and  such  a  charge  it  was — what  with 
powder,  wadding,  buck-shot,  and  bullets,  the  old  rifle  was  as 
good  as  a  cannon,  only  it  was  a  great  deal  more  likely  to  beat 
the  old  woman's  brains  out  by  a  vicious  recoil  than  pour  all  that 
amount  of  lead  upon  the  enemy.  Still  Mother  Derwent  waxed 
valiant  as  the  danger  grew  near,  and,  with  every  war-whoop, 
put  in  a  new  charge,  pushing  it  down  with  a  stick  from  her 
swifts,  which  was  the  best  ramrod  to  be  found,  and  waited  for 
another  whoop  to  load  again. 

"  Come,  gals,  don't  be  sitting  there,  scared  to  death  ;  that 
ain't  no  way  to  act  in  war-time.  Don't  you  see  my  ammunition's 
give  out  a'ready.  Bring  out  the  pewter  tea-pot,  and  I'll  melt  it 
down.  Oh,  marcy  on  us,  here  they  are  !" 

The  girls  started  up,  looking  wildly  out  of  the  window.    A 


THE      WAENING     AND     FLIGHT.  357 

man  came  up  the  footpath,  bounding  towards  the  house,  his 
clothes  dripping  wot,  and  water  streaming  from  his  hair. 

"  It  is  Edward  Clark  1"  shrieked  Jane  Derwent,  rushing  to 
wards  the  door. 

"It  is  Edward,"  whispered  Mary,  with  a  throb  of  exquisite 
thankfulness. 

Mother  Derwent  only  heard  footsteps  rushing  towards  her 
cabin.  Planting  herself  on  the  hearth,  she  lifted  the  rifle  to  her 
shoulder,  and  stood  with  her  face  to  the  door,  ready  to  fire 
whenever  an  enemy  appeared. 

But  the  door  burst  open,  and  while  she  was  tugging  at 
the  obstinate  trigger,  Edward  Clark  rushed  by  her,  calling 
out  : 

"  Flee  to  the  east  shore,  one  and  all.  A  horde  of  savages  are 
making  for  the  river  1" 

While  he  spoke,  half  a  dozen  more  fugitives  came  rushing  up, 
followed  by  others,  till  fifteen  or  twenty  men,  too  exhausted  for 
swimming,  and  without  other  hope,  turned  at  bay,  and  proceeded 
to  barricade  themselves  in  the  cabin. 

"  You  will  not  let  them  murder  us  ?"  gasped  Jane  Derwent, 
clinging  to  her  lover  with  all  the  desperation  of  fear. 

The  young  man  strained  her  to  his  bosom,  pressed  a  kiss  upon 
her  cold  lips,  and  strove  to  tear  himself  from  her  arms  ;  but  she 
clung  the  more  wildly  to  him  in  her  terror,  and  he  could  not  free 
himself. 

"  Jane,"  said  a  low,  calm  voice  from  the  inner  room,  "  come 
and  let  us  stay  together.  The  great  God  of  heaven  and  earth  is 
above  us — He  is  powerful  to  save  !" 

Jane  unwound  her  arms  from  her  lover's  neck,  and  tottered 
away  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  where  her  sister  was  kneeling.  There 
she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  remained  motionless  ;  and 
none  would  have  believed  her  alive,  save  that  a  shudder  ran 
through  her  frame  whenever  a  rifle  shot  was  heard  from  the 
river.  A  few  moments  of  intense  stillness — then  a  loud  fierce 
howl,  appallingly  near,  and  several  rifles  were  discharged  iu 


358  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

quick  succession.  A  paler  hue  fell  on  every  stern  face  in  that 
little  phalanx  ;  but  they  were  desperate  men,  and  stood  ready 
for  the  death,  pale  and  resolute. 

The  door  was  barricaded,  and  Edward  Clark  stationed  him 
self  at  the  window  with  his  musket,  and  kept  his  eye  steadily 
fixed  on  the  path  which  led  to  the  cove.  But  with  all  their  pre 
caution,  one  means  of  entrance  had  been  forgotten.  The  win 
dow  of  Mary  Derwent's  bedroom  remained  open  ;  and  the  basket 
of  roses  lay  in  it,  shedding  perfume  abroad,  sweetly  as  if  human 
blood  were  not  about  to  drench  them. 

The  hush  of  expectation  holding  back  the  pulsations  of  so 
many  brave  hearts,  caused  Jane,  paralyzed  as  she  was  with  fear, 
to  raise  her  face.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  window — a  scream  broke 
from  her,  she  grasped  her  sister's  shoulder  convulsively,  and 
pointed  with  her  right  hand  to  a  young  Indian  woman  who  stood 
looking  upon  them,  with  one  hand  on  the  window-sill.  When 
she  saw  those-two  pale  faces  looking  into  hers,  Tahmeroo  beck 
oned  with  her  finger  ;  but  Jane  only  shrieked  the  more  wildly, 
and  again  buried  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes. 

Mary  arose  from  her  knees,  and  walked  firmly  to  the  window, 
for  she  recognized  Tahmeroo.  A  few  eager  whispers  passed  be 
tween  them,  and  Mary  went  into  the  next  room.  There  was  a 
stir,  the  clang  of  a  rifle  striking  the  hearth,  then  the  valorous  old 
woman  rushed  into  the  bedroom. 

Tahmeroo  had  torn  away  the  sash,  and  had  leapt  in — 
forcing  the  bewildered  girl  through  the  opening.  When  her 
charge  was  on  the  outer  side,  the  young  Indian  cleared  the  win 
dow  with  the  bound  of  an  antelope,  and  dragged  her  on,  calling 
on  the  rest  to  follow. 

"  Let  the  fair  girl  keep  a  good  heart,"  whispered  the  Indian, 
urging  her  companion  to  swifter  speed  ;  "  if  we  have  a  few  mo 
ments  more  all  will  be  saved." 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  a  blood-thirsty  yell 
broke  up  from  the  cove:  the  war-whoop,  the  war-whoop  ! 

"  The  boats  are  waiting — be  quick  !  more  can  be  done  yet," 


THE     WARNING     AND     FLIGHT.  359 

cried  Catharine  Montour,  as  she  rushed  up  from  the  river  towards 
the  house. 

Oh,  it  was  a  horrid  fight — that  which  raged  around  Mother 
Derwent's  dwelling  the  next  moment.  A  swarm  of  fiends  seemed 
to  have  encompassed  it,  with  shouts  and  yells,  and  fierce,  blood 
thirsty  howling.  The  whiz  of  arrows,  the  crash  of  descending 
tomahawks,  and  the  sharp  rifle-shot,  mingled  horribly  with  the 
groans,  the  cries,  and  oaths  of  the  murderers  and  the  mur 
dered.  The  floor  of  that  log-house  was  heaped  with  the  dying 
and  the  dead:  yet  the  fight  raged  on  with  a  fiercer  and  more 
blood-thirsty  violence,  till  the  savages  prowled  among  the  slain 
like  a  host  of  incarnate  fiends,  slaking  their  vengeance  on  the 
wounded  and  the  dead,  for  want  of  other  victims. 

Through  all  this  carnage,  the  Moravian  missionary  passed 
unscathed,  searching  for  his  child.  Many  a  fiery  eye  glared  upon 
him;  many  a  hatchet  flashed  over  his  head;  but  none  descended. 
Another  tall  and  lordly  man  there  was,  who  rushed  in  the  midst 
of  the  savages,  and  strove  in  vain  to  put  an  end  to  the  massacre. 
They  turned  in  fury  upon  him.  He  snatched  arms  from  a  dead 
Indian,  and  defended  himself  bravely.  Savage  after  savage 
rushed  upon  him,  and  he  was  nearly  borne  to  the  ground,  when 
Catharine  Montour  sprung  in  the  midst,  with  the  bound  of  a 
wounded  lioness,  and  flinging  her  arms  about  him,  shouted — 

"Back,  fiends  !  back,  I  say.     He  is  our  brother." 

The  descending  knife  recoiled  with  the  fierce  hand  that 
grasped  it,  and  the  savage  darted  away,  searching  for  a  new 
victim.  That  instant,  Queen  Esther  sprang  upon  them,  the 
bloodless  grey  of  her  face  looking  more  horrible  from  a  glare 
of  smouldering  fire  that  broke  up  from  the  kitchen  behind 
her. 

She  had  just  flung  her  tomahawk,  but  wrenched  the  stiletto 
from  her  torn  robe.  It  flashed  upwards,  quivered,  and  fell 
noiselessly  as  a  blasted  leaf  descends.  Catharine  gasped  heavily 
— again  the  knife  descended.  Murray  felt  a  sharp  pang,  but  so 
keen  was  the  agony  of  feeling  that  woman  on  his  bosom,  so 


360  MAKY     DERWENT. 

close,  and  yet  so  far  away,  that  he  was  ignorant  when  the 
poignard  entered  his  side. 

He  cleared  the  door  with  one  spasmodic  leap;  and,  as  the 
dwelling  burst  into  flames  behind  him,  rushed  towards  the  spring 
with  his  bleeding  burden,  nor  slackened  his  speed  till  her  arms 
relaxed  their  clasp,  and  her  face  fell  forwards  on  his  breast.  He 
felt  the  warm  blood-drops  falling  upon  his  bosom,  and  pressed 
her  closer  to  him,  but  with  a  shudder,  as  if  they  had  been  drop 
ping  upon  his  bare  heart. 

Down  the  tortuous  path  he  staggered,  growing  deathly 
sick  as  he  sat  down,  folding  her  madly  in  his  arms.  He  thought 
that  it  was  the  beat  of  her  heart  against  his,  that  made  him  so 
faint;  but  it  was  his  own  life  ebbing  slowly  away,  through  the 
wound  Queen  Esther  had  given  him. 

Meantime,  Tahmeroo  urged  her  companion  forwards  with  an 
impulse,  sharpened  by  the  sounds  of  conflict  which  followed 
them.  Half  mad  with  contending  feelings,  Jane  Derwent  strug 
gled  in  her  conductor's  hold,  and  would  have  rushed  back  iu 
search  of  those  she  had  left,  could  she  have  freed  herself.  But 
the  young  Indian  kept  a  firm  grasp  on  her  arm,  and  dragged  her 
resolutely  towards  the  boats,  regardless  of  her  entreaties.  They 
were  too  late;  the  canoes  had  put  off. 

When  Mary  saw  her  sister  on  her  way  to  safety,  she  turned 
back  and  went  in  search  of  her  grandmother,  whom  she  found  at 
bay  on  the  hearth-stone.  She  seized  her  by  the  arm,  and  point 
ing  to  the  cellar  door,  dragged  her  down  the  ladder,  closing  the 
entrance  after  her.  A  hatch  door  opened  into  the  garden,  and 
through  this  the  old  woman  and  the  girl  fled  into  the  open  air. 

The  savages  were  rioting  there,  whirling  firebrands  snatched 
from  the  hearth,  and  striving  to  kindle  the  heavy  logs  into  a 
conflagration.  They  saw  Mary,  in  her  floating  white  dress,  and 
fell  back,  gazing  after  her  with  dull  awe,  through  the  smoke  of 
their  smouldering  brands.  Her  deformity  saved  the  old  woman, 
for  to  them  it  was  a  mark  from  the  Great  Spirit,  and  to  harm 
her  would  be  sacrilege. 


THE      WARNING     AND     FLIGHT.  361 

So  the  old  woman  and  the  angel  girl  passed  through  the  sav 
ages  unharmed  ;  bat  there  was  more  danger  from  the  Tories, 
who  shamed  the  heathen  red  men  with  coarser  barbarities  than 
they  yet  knew,  for  family  ties  were  sacred  to  the  Indian. 

As  the  two  females  fled  shorewards,  many  fugitives  ran  across 
the  outskirts  of  the  island,  hiding  among  the  vines  and  willows, 
or  recklessly  aiming  for  the  eastern  shore. 

Among  the  rest,  two  men  passed  them  ;  both  were  white,  and 
one  was  pursuing  the  other  with  desperate  fury.  One  faltered 
and  fell  as  he  passed  her,  staggering  to  his  knees  as  the  other 
came  up. 

"  Brother — brother  !  In  the  name  of  her  who  bore  us,  do  not 
kill  me  1"  shrieked  the  wretched  man,  looking  with  horror  on  the 
uplifted  tomahawk.  "  I  will  be  your  slave — anything,  every 
thing,  but  do  not  kill  me,  brother  1" 

"  Infernal  traitor  1" 

The  words  hissed  through  his  clenched  teeth  ;  the  tomahawk 
whirled  in  the  air,  and  came  down  with  a  dull  crash  !  The  fra 
tricide  fled  onwards — a  brother's  life  had  not  satiated  him. 

Mary  turned  sick  with  horror. 

"  On,  grandmother,  on  1"  she  called  ;  "  they  will  kill  her  too, 
our  sister  1" 

Jane  saw  them  coming,  sprang  to  her  sister's  arms,  and  began 
to  plead  in  a  voice  of  almost  insane  agony. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  let  us  go  back  and  try  to  find  him  ;  we  may 
as  well  all  die  together — for  they  will  murder  us  1" 

Tahmeroo  parted  them  abruptly,  and  springing  into  the  water, 
waded  to  a  log  which  lay  bedded  among  the  rushes,  and  rolled 
it  into  the  current.  It  was  scarcely  afloat,  when  a  party  of  In 
dians  came  in  sight,  and,  with  a  fierce  whoop,  rushed  towards 
the  little  group.  Tahmeroo  sprang  back  upon  the  bank,  point 
ing  to  the  log. 

"  See,  it  floats  !  Fling  yourself  upon  it — I  will  keep  them 
back  !" 

She  did  not  wait  to  see  her  directions  obeyed,  but  walked 
firmly  towards  the  savages. 


362  MAEY      DEKWENT. 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

QUEEN    ESTHER'S    ROCK. 

THOSE  three  females  made  their  way  to  the  floating  timber  ; 
Mary  and  Jane  forced  the  old  grandmother  on  it  first,  then 
placed  themselves  firmly  on  either  side  of  her,  and  with  a  branch 
of  driftwood,  which  Jane  snatched  from  a  thicket,  pushed  out  on 
the  deep  river.  The  current,  swift  and  strong,  bore  them  on 
wards,  and  with  a  terrible  sense  of  vastness,  they  floated  off  into 
the  night,  leaving  shrieks,  the  rattle  of  shot,  and  red  flames 
roaring  and  quivering  where  that  old  home  had  been. 

The  night  had  set  in,  but  that  red  conflagration  kindled  up 
the  waters  and  the  dense  woods  with  its  lurid  glare,  which  played 
about  the  bridal  garments  of  the  young  girls,  and  that  beautiful 
head,  crowned  with  flowers,  in  fantastic  contrast.  The  battle 
was  over,  but  the  yell  of  some  sav.age,  as  he  sprang  on  his 
victim,  sounded  horribly  through  the  gathering  stillness,  and 
made  those  hapless  females  shrink  closer  together  on  their  frail 
support. 

Shuddering,  and  half  paralyzed  by  these  horrors,  and  those 
they  had  just  escaped,  the  little  group  drifted  helplessly  on. 
But  now,  a  new  fear  crept  over  Mary,  for  she  alone  noticed  the 
danger.  As  the  pores  of  the  timber  gradually  filled,  its  size 
became  insufficient  for  their  weight  ;  every  moment  it  was  sink 
ing  lower  and  lower  in  the  water.  At  first  she  was  appalled, 
but  after  a  moment,  the  sublime  bravery  of  her  soul  came  back. 
The  timber  was  heavy  enough  for  two — the  old  grand-dame  and 
that  beautiful  sister  should  be  saved — as  for  her 

She  looked  down  into  the  waters— deep,  deep  ;  the  crimson  of 
the  distant  fires  warmed  them  up  like  blood  ;  she  could  not  give 
herself  to  them  there  ;  it  was  like  bathing  in  a  new  horror.  But 


QUEEN    ESTHER'S    HOCK.  363 

soon  the  log  floated  nearer  the  shore,  and  carried  them  into  deep 
shadows. 

"  Grandmother — Jane  !" 

"What,  Mary,  dear — are  you  frightened?"  said  the  old 
woman. 

"  You  speak  strangely — has  the  cold  chilled  yon  through, 
sister  ?"  questioned  Jane,  shivering  herself  in  the  chill  night  air. 

"  Grandmother — sister — you  know  where  to  go  ;  when  you 
come  opposite  Kingston,  do  your  best  to  get  on  shore  ;  run  to 
Aunt  Polly  Carter's  tavern,  and  hide  till  there  is  some  chance  of 
escape  over  the  mountains.  Do  you  listen,  Jane  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  you  are  with  us — you  will  tell  us  how  to  act 
then." 

Mary  did  not  speak  for  a  moment ;  a  sob  rose  to  her  lips,  but 
made  no  sound. 

"  It  is  well  to  understand,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  Grand 
mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mary,  but  hold  on  ;  your  arms  fall  away — you  will  slip 
off — hug  me  closer,  Mary." 

The  arms  clung  around  her  with  sudden  tightness  ;  that  pale 
face  fell  upon  her  shoulder,  and  a  kiss  touched  her  withered 
Deck  ;  one  hand  groped  farther,  and  caught  eagerly  at  Jane 
Derwent's  dress. 

"  Jane — oh,  sister  Jane  !" 

"  Don't,  Mary  ;  you  almost  pull  me  off." 

The  hand  fell  back. 

"  Mary — Mary — for  mercy's  sake,  hold  tight !  Oh,  dear — oh, 
Mary— Mary  !" 

"What — what  is  it?  Grandmother,  you  make  me  tremble 
with  these  cries.  Mary,  don't  frighten  her  so — she's  old." 

"  She's  gone — God  forgive  us  two — she's  gone — slipped  off — 
drowned  !" 

Jane  uttered  a  wild  cry,  and  seizing  the  timber  with  both 
hands,  strove  madly  to  hold  it  back  ;  but  the  current  had  them 
in  its  power,  and  mercilessly  bore  them  on. 


364:  MART     DERWENT. 

A  cloud  of  white  rose  upon  the  water  as  they  swept  .down 
ward,  sending  back  cries  and  shrieks  of  anguish.  It  sunk  and 
rose  again,  this  time  nearer  the  shore.  Then  some  human  being, 
Indian  or  white,  dashed  through  the  brushwood,  leaped  into  the 
stream,  striking  out  for  that  mass  of  floating  white.  A  plunge, 
a  long,  desperate  pull,  and  the  man  was  struggling  up  the  bank, 
carrying  Mary  in  his  arms. 

It  was  the  missionary  !  He  held  her  close  to  his  heart  ;  he 
warmed  her  cold  face  against  his  own,  searching  for  life  upon 
her  lips,  and  thanking  God  with  a  burst  of  gratitude  when  he 
found  it. 

Mary  stirred  in  his  embrace.  The  beat  of  her  arms  on  the 
waters  had  forced  them  to  deal  tenderly  with  her  ;  and  the  breath 
had  not  yet  left  her  bosom.  For  a  moment  she  thought  herself 
in  heaven,  and  smiled  pleasantly  to  know  that  he  was  with  her. 
But  a  prolonged  yell  from  the  plain,  followed  by  a  slow  and  ap 
palling  death-chant,  brought  her  to  consciousness  with  a  shock. 
She  started  up,  swept  back  her  hair,  and  looked  off  towards  the 
sound.  There  she  met  a  sight  that  drove  all  thoughts  of  heaven, 
from  her  brain.  A  huge  fragment  of  stone  lay  in  the  centre  of 
a  ring,  from  which  the  brushwood  had  been  cut  away,  as  an 
executioner  shreds  the  tresses  of  a  victim,  in  order  to  secure  a 
clear  blow.  Around  this  rock  sixteen  prisoners  were  ranged, 
and  behind  them  a  ring  of  savages,  each  holding  a  victim  pressed 
to  the  earth.  And  thus  the  doomed  men  sat  face  to  face, 
waiting  for  death. 

As  she  gazed,  Queen  Esther,  the  terrible  priestess  of  that 
night,  came  from  her  work  on  Monockonok  Island,  followed  by 
a  train  of  Indians,  savage  as  herself,  and  swelled  the  horrid 
scene.  With  her  son's  tomahawk  gleaming  in  her  hand,  she 
struck  into  a  dance,  which  had  a  horrid  grace  in  it.  With  every 
third  step,  the  tomahawk  fell,  and  a  head  rolled  at  her  feet  ! 
The  whole  scene  was  lighted  up  by  a  huge  fire,  built  from  the 
brushwood  cleared  from  the  circle,  and  against  this  red  light  her 
figure  rose  awfully  distinct.  The  folds  of  her  long  hair  had 


QUEEN  ESTHER'S  EOCK.       365 

broken  loose  and  floated  behind  her,  gleaming  white  and  terrible  ; 
while  the  hard  profile  of  her  face  cut  sharply  against  the  flames, 
like  that  of  a  fiend  born  of  the  conflagration. 

Mary  turned  her  eyes  from  this  scene  to  the  missionary :  he 
understood  the  appeal. 

"  I  will  go,"  he  said  ;  "  it  may  be  to  give  up  my  life  for 
theirs." 

"  And  I,"  said  Mary,  with  pale  firmness — "  God  has  smitten 
me  with  a  great  power." 

She  touched  her  deformed  shoulder,  as  an  angel  might  have 
pointed  out  its  wings,  and  sped  onwards  towards  the  scene  of 
slaughter — her  feet  scarcely  touched  the  earth.  The  missionary, 
with  all  his  zeal,  could  hardly  keep  pace  with  her. 

Queen  Esther's  death-chant  increased  in  volume  and  fury  as 
the  chain  of  bleeding  heads  lengthened  and  circled  along  her 
tracks.  Life  after  life  had  dropped  before  her,  and  but  two  were 
left,  when  Mary  Derwent  forced  herself  through  the  belt  of 
savages  and  sprang  upon  the  rock. 

"  Warriors,  stop  the  massacre — in  the  name  of  the  Great 
Spirit,  I  command  you  !" 

She  spoke  in  the  Indian  tongue,  which  had  been  a  familiar 
language  since  her  childhood  ;  her  hand  was  uplifted  ;  her  eyes 
bright  with  inspiration  ;  around  her  limbs  the  white  garments 
clung  like  marble  folds  to  a  statue. 

Queen  Esther  paused  and  looked  up  with  the  sneer  of  a  de 
mon  in  her  eyes.  But  the  Indians  who  held  the  men  yet 
alive,  withdrew  their  hold,  and  fell  upon  their  faces  to  the  earth. 

The  two  men  crouched  on  the  ground,  numb  with  horror  ; 
they  did  not  even  see  the  being  who  had  come  to  save  them. 

The  missionary  bent  over  them  and  whispered — 

"  Up  and  flee  towards  Forty  Fort." 

They  sprang  up  and  away.  The  Indians  saw  them,  but  did 
not  move.  Queen  Esther  heard  their  leap,  and  ended  her  chant 
in  a  long,  low  wail.  Then  she  turned  in  her  rage,  and  would 
have  flung  her  tomahawk  at  the  angel  girl,  but  the  Indians 


366  MARY      DERWENT. 

sprang  upon  the  rock  and  guarded  her  with  their  uplifted 
weapons.  Superstition,  with  them,  was  stronger  than  reverence 
for  their  demon  queen. 

The  rage  of  that  old  woman  was  horrible.  She  prowled 
around  the  phalanx  of  savages  like  a  tigress  ;  menaced  them 
with  her  weapons  with  impotent  fury,  and,  springing  on  her 
horse,  galloped  through  the  forest  by  the  smouldering  fort  and 
across  the  plain,  until  she  came  out  opposite  the  little  island 
where  her  son  was  buried.  Her  horse  paused  on  the  brink  of 
the  stream,  white  with  foam  and  dripping  with  sweat,  but  she 
struck  him  with  the  flat  of  her  tomahawk  and  he  plunged  in, 
bearing  her  to  the  island.  Here  she  cast  her  steed  loose,  stag 
gered  up  to  the  new-made  grave,  dropped  the  reeking  toma 
hawk  upon  it,  and  fell  down  from  pure  physical  exhaustion, 
bathed  with  blood  as  a  fiend  is  draped  in  flame. 

As  the  aged  demon  took  her  way  to  that  grave,  the  angel  girl 
turned  to  her  path  of  mercy.  For  that  night  the  massacre  was 
stayed.  To  the  Indians  she  had  appeared  as  a  prophetess  from 
the  Great  Spirit,  who  had  laid  his  hand  heavily  upon  her  shoulder 
as  a  symbol  of  divine  authority. 


CHAPTER     SLIX. 

THE     ISLAND     GRAVE. 

THE  morning  broke,  with  a  quiet,  holy  light,  through  the 
thicket  of  crab-apple,  and  wild  cherry  trees,  which  overlaced  the 
spring  in  the  centre  of  the  island  ;  and  there  upon  the  blooming 
turf  beneath,  lay  the  form  of  Catharine  Montour.  Her  eyes 
were  closed,  and  the  violet  tint  of  exhaustion  lay  about  them. 
The  feathers  which  composed  her  coronet  were  crushed  in  a 
gorgeous  mass  beneath  her  pale  temple,  and  her  forehead  was 


THE     ISLAND     GKAVE.  367 

contracted  with  a  slight  frown,  as  if  the  serpent  coiled  around  it 
were  girding  her  brow  too  tightly.  Ever  and  anon  her  pale 
hands  clutched  themselves  deep  into  the  moss,  and  her  limbs 
writhed  in  the  agony  of  her  wounds.  The  pale,  haggard  face 
of  Grenville  Murray  lay  upon  the  moss  where  he  had  fallen 
when  she  dropped  away  from  his  arms,  as  it  had  done  the  whole 
night  ;  and  Varnham,  the  missionary,  sat  a  little  way  off,  look 
ing  mournfully  on  them  both.  There  was  a  solemn  and  awful 
sorrow  in  his  silence  ;  yet  something  of  cold  sternness.  He 
could  not  look  on  that  pale,  haughty  man  so  near  his  wife,  with 
out  some  thought  of  the  evil  that  had  been  done  him. 

On  the  swell  of  the  bank,  a  short  distance  from  the  spring, 
crouched  another  miserable  being.  Tahmeroo  sat  upon  the 
ground,  looking  upon  her  mother,  in  dreary  desolation. 

The  expression  of  pain  gradually  cleared  from  Catharine  Mon- 
tour's  face,  and  at  last  her  eyes  unclosed  and  turned  upon  Mur 
ray.  She  saw  the  death-drops  on  his  forehead,  and,  struggling 
to  her  elbow,  took  his  cold  hand. 

"  Lady  Granby,  speak  to  me  !  In  the  name  of  God,  I  pray 
you,  speak  before  it  is  too  late.  Say  that  I  am  forgiven  !"  he 
murmured. 

There  was  a  depth  of  agony  in  that  voice  which  might  have 
won  forgiveness  from  the  dead.  Catharine  Montour  strove  to 
speak,  her  lips  moved,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  solemn  light. 
Murray  fell  back  and  gave  up  her  hand.  Must  he  go  into  eter 
nity  with  a  doubt  upon  his  soul  ! 

"  Caroline,"  said  a  low,  broken  voice,  and  a  face  full  of  anguish 
bent  over  her,  "  forgive  this  man,  as  I  do,  before  he  dies." 

The  hand  which  Yaruham  took  was  cold,  but  it  moved  with 
a  faint  clasp,  and  her  eyes,  which  had  opened  again,  turned  with 
a  confident  and  gentle  expression  upon  the  missionary's.  A  soft 
and  almost  holy  emile,  like  that  which  slumbers  about  the  sweet 
mouth  of  an  infant,  fell  upon  the  lips  of  Catharine  Montour,  and  a 
pleasant  murmur,  which  was  more  than  forgiveness,  reached  the 
dying  man's  ear. 


368  MAKY     DERWENT. 

"  Great  God,  I  thank  thee  that  thou  hast  vouchsafed  me  the 
grace  to  forgive  this  man  !"  burst  from  the  missionary  ;  his 
face  fell  forwards  upon  his  bosom,  and  he  wept  aloud,  as  one 
who  had  found  the  great  wish  of  a  lifetime. 

Murray  turned  his  eyes,  now  freezing  with  death,  upon  Catha 
rine's  face  ;  he  saw  that  smile,  and  over  his  own  features  came 
a  light  that  for  one  moment  threw  back  the  ashen  shadows 
gathering  there. 

Varnham  moved  gently  to  his  side,  took  the  cold  hand,  and 
held  it  till  it  stiffened  into  the  marble  of  death.  Catharine 
watched  his  face,  as  it  saddened,  shade  by  shade  with  the  ebbing 
pulses  that  quivered  under  his  touch.  When  she  saw  that  all 
was  over,  a  cold  chill  crept  through  her  frame,  the  lids  closed 
heavily  over  her  eyes,  and  she  was  almost  as  lifeless  as  the  man 
who  had  been  her  destiny. 

Yarnham  laid  the  hands  of  the  dead  reverently  down,  and 
lifting  Catharine  Montour  in  his  arms,  rested  her  head  upon  his 
bosom,  while  he  called  on  Tahmeroo  for  water.  She  ran  down 
to  the  spring,  formed  a  cup  with  her  two  hands,  and  sprinkled 
the  deathly  face.  But  there  came  no  signs  of  consciousness. 
She  seemed  utterly  gone.  Varnham  knew  that  her  heart  was 
beating,  for  he  felt  it  against  his  own,  and  for  the  moment 
a  faintness  crept  over  him  ;  he  forgot  where  he  was,  and  that 
death  lay  close  by  ;  all  the  years  and  events  that  had  separated 
those  two  souls  floated  away,  like  mist ;  he  bent  down  and 
whispered,  "  Caroline,  my  Caroline  !"  as  he  had  done  a  thousand 
times  when  she  was  insane  and  unconscious  as  then  of  the  love 
which  had  not  died,  which  never  could  die. 

"  Caroline,  my  Caroline." 

His  head  was  bent,  and  his  trembling  lips  almost  touched  her 
forehead  ;  he  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing  ;  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  arid  alarm  broke  from  Tahmeroo,  but  he  was  all  uncon 
scious  of  it  till  the  form  of  Catharine  Montour  was  torn  from  his 
arms  by  the  chief  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  who  folded  her  to  his  broad 
chest,  casting  a  look  of  sovereign  disdain  over  his  shoulder,  as  he 


THE      CAPITULATION.  369 

bore  her  away.  A  company  of  fifty  Indians  had  followed  him 
to  the  Island,  and  when  Varnham  rose,  dizzy  with  the  sudclea 
attack,  they  swarmed  around  him,  offering  no  violence,  but  cut 
ting  off  his  retreat.  When  they  left  him  at  liberty  again,  he 
was  alone  with  the  body  of  his  forgiven  enemy. 

In  a  little  out-house  that  had  escaped  the  flames,  Varnham 
found  a  spade  and  pickaxe.  He  left  the  body  with  Tahmeroo, 
and,  going  down  to  the  old  cedars,  dug  a  grave  with  his  own 
hands.  Then,  with  the  assistance  of  the  Indian  girl,  he  bore  the 
body  away,  and  laid  it  in  the  cold  earth  with  unuttered  prayers 
and  awful  reverence.  The  sods  with  which  they  heaped  the 
earth  that  covered  him  were  green,  and  the  night  dew  was  still 
upon  them.  But  a  drop  fell  upon  that  grave  more  pure  than  all 
the  dew  that  trembled  there.  It  was  the  tear  of  a  man  who 
had  learned  to  forgive  as  he  hoped  to  be  forgiven. 


CHAPTER    L. 

THE     CAPITULATION. 

THERE  was  no  hope  for  the  people  of  Forty  Fort,  the  stockade 
at  Pittston  had  surrendered,  Fort  Jenkins  was  already  taken,  and 
from  Wilksbarre  the  inhabitants  were  fleeing  to  the  hills.  Thus 
helpless  and  hopeless,  the  fugitives  who  had  succeeded  in  reach 
ing  the  fort  with  the  women  and  children  already  there,  had  no 
choice  between  the  terms  of  capitulation  offered  by  Colonel  John 
Butler  and  another  massacre. 

While  the  plain  was  strewn  with  the  dead  bodies  of  men  who 

had  marched  forth  from  those  gates  so  valiantly  the  day  before, 

they  were  thrown  open  that  the  triumphant  enemy  might  pass 

in.     At  the  command  of  their  colonel,  the  patriots  came  slowly 

i,      '  24 


370  MAEY     DEEWENT. 

forwards  and  stacked  their  arms  in  the  centre  of  the  stockade. 
The  women  and  children  clustered  in  miserable  groups,  and  stood 
in  dead  silence,  waiting  for  the  murderers  of  their  sons  and 
husbands. 

The  victors  approached  with  beating  drums  and  flying  colors, 
divided  in  two  columns.  The  Tories  were  headed  by  the 
Butlers,  while  in  at  the  south  gate  marched  the  savages,  with 
Queen  Esther  and  Gi-en-gwa-tah  at  their  head. 

The  faces  of  the  Whigs  were  marked  by  the  Indians  with  black 
paint  in  order  to  insure  their  safety.  The  children  retreated 
from  this  savage  kindness  with  loud  outcries.  While  the  pallid 
women  passed  before  their  captors  in  defile,  shrinking  with 
horror  from  their  touch. 

"  Ain't  you  ashamed,  wimmen  of  Wyoming  ?"  cried  Aunt 
Polly  Carter,  marching  boldly  up  to  the  tall  savage  who  distri 
buted  the  war-paint.  "What  are  ye  skeered  at?  I  never 
expected  to  have  the  mark  of  Cain  sat  on  my  forehead  by  a  wild 
Injun;  but  if  I  must,  I  must !  Here,  Mr.  Copperhead,  make  it 
good  and  black.  I  don't  want  no  mistake,  if  any  of  your  chiefs 
should  take  a  notion  for  more  scalps;  and  I  say,  Mr.  Injun,  hold 
your  head  down  here,  while  I  whisper  something.  If  you  could 
just  put  an  extra  dab  on  to  let  your  men  folks  know  I'm 
engaged,  if  they  should  want  to  marry  any  of  our  wimmen,  I'd 
be  much  obleeged  to  you." 

The  Indian,  who  did  not  comprehend  a  word  of  all  this,  crossed 
his  blackened  stick  on  her  cheek,  gave  her  a  push,  and  was  ready 
for  the  next  trembling  creature  that  presented  herself.  As  Aunt 
Polly  took  her  place  among  the  marked  women,  a  little  boy 
pulled  her  by  the  dress,  and  whispered  that  he  had  just  seen 
Gineral  Washington  with  an  Injun  on  his  back. 

"  General  Washington — my  boss — you  don't  say  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Polly,  his  own  self,  with  a  big  Injun  a  riding 
him." 

"  He  shan't  ride  him  out  of  the  fort,  anyhow,"  exclaimed 
Polly.  "  Captin — Captin  Walter  Butler — I  call  on  you  to  help 


THE      CAPITULATION.  371 

me  get  my  hoss  back.  One  of  them  ere  red  fellers  has  stole 
Gineral  Washington  right  afore  my  two  eyes." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  buy  him  back,"  replied  Butler, 
laughing.  "  What  can  you  give  ?" 

"  Give  !  I  shan't  give  nothing  for  what's  my  own  now,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Then,  I  am  afraid,  you  and  the  General  will  have  to  part." 

The  savages  began  to  march  out  of  the  fort,  and  Aunt  Polly 
followed  in  hot  haste. 

"  Captin!  captin!"  she  shrieked,  "make  the  bargain  for  me — 
do;  that's  a  good  soul." 

Butler  addressed  a  savage  near  him  in  his  own  tongue,  and 
turned  again  to  the  old  maid. 

"  Give  him  some  money,  Miss  Carter,  and  you  can  have  the 
horse." 

"  Money!  pay  money  for  a  hoss  that  I've  owned  these 

twen this  long  time  I  Wai,  that  is  a  purty  how  de  do,  I 

must  say." 

But  Butler's  remonstrances  and  the  sullen  look  of  the  Indian 
proved  that  she  could  not  obtain  the  faithful  animal  on  any  other 
terms.  That  moment,  the  General  looked  towards  his  mistress, 
and  recognizing  her  with  a  low  neigh  of  delight,  Aunt  Polly 
could  not  withstand  that  appeal.  She  put  her  hand  in  her 
bosom  and  drew  forth  an  old  shot-bag,  as  ruefully  as  if  it  had 
been  her  own  heart,  untied  it,  and  took  out  the  two  guineas,  her 
chief  treasures.  She  eyed  them  ruefully,  and  was  about  to 
thrust  them  into  the  bag  again,  when  the  General,  sagacious 
animal,  whinnied.  Aunt  Polly  grasped  one  of  the  pieces,  and 
thrust  the  rest  into  her  bosom. 

"  Perhaps  you  could  persuade  him  to  take  a  string  of  beads, 
or  some  gew-gaw  instead,"  whispered  Butler,  rather  pitying  her 
distress. 

"  Lawful  sakes  !"  cried  the  old  maid,  joyfully.  "  I've  got 
just  the  purtiest  string  ;  stand  in  front  of  me,  captin,  and  turn 
your  back,  while  I  loosen  my  dress  so  as  to  get  'em  off" 


372  MART      DEKWENT. 

Butler  obeyed,  laughing  heartily,  and  Aunt  Polly  hurriedly 
untied  a  string  of  bright  blue  glass  beads,  and  held  them  up 
before  the  Indian,  who  gave  a  humph  of  delight,  and  snatched 
them  from  her  hand,  at  the  same  moment.  Aunt  Polly  darted 
towards  the  General,  slipped  the  bridle  over  her  arm,  and  rushed 
back  into  the  fort  with  old  horse  trotting  behind  her  ;  she  reached 
a  safe  corner,  and  sat  down  on  the  ground,  fairly  hysterical  with 
tears  and  laughter. 

"  Oh,  Gin'ral,  Gin'ral  Washington,  I  should  have  died,  if  Pd 
lost  you — I  know  I  should  I  He  !  he  !  only  to  think  how  I 
cheated  the  feller — poor  old  Gin'ral,  you're  thin  as  a  shad  !  A 
string  of  old  blue  beads,  that  wasn't  worth  ten  coppers — try 
agin,  when  you  want  to  cheat  a  born  Connecticut  woman,  you 
red  varmint  you." 

When  the  Tories  and  savages  had  fairly  disappeared,  Aunt 
Polly  was  among  the  first  to  leave  the  fort. 

"  Wai,"  she  said  to  the  bystanders,  as  she  mounted  on  the 
General,  with  the  aid  of  a  broken  bench,  "  I've  lost  my  saddle; 
but,  thank  goodness,  I  can  ride  bare-back.  But  where's  Captin 
Slocum  ?  he  hain't  said  a  word  about  that  ere  rum." 

The  unhappy  inmates  of  the  fort  were  too  much  occupied  with 
their  own  griefs  to  heed  these  pathetic  lamentations,  and  Aunt 
Polly  rode  briskly  away,  muttering  confusedly  of  her  losses,  and 
her  delight  at  rescuing  the  General  at  so  little  cost. 

Her  heart  sank  when  she  drew  near  her  own  house,  for  she 
had  passed  nothing  but  smoking  cabins  all  the  way;  but  a  sud 
den  rise  of  ground  revealed  it,  standing  and  unharmed.  As  she 
galloped  up  to  the  door,  Sim  White,  looking  really  glad,  came 
out  to  meet  her,  while  Mother  Derwent  and  Jane  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"  All  safe  !"  cried  Aunt  Polly,  springing  to  the  ground. 
"  Where's  Mary,  and  the  minister  ?" 

"  Mary  is  on  the  bed,  worn  out  with  last  night's  work," 
began  the  old  lady,  but  Aunt  Polly  did  not  pause  to  hear  her 
out. 


THE     DOUBLE     WEDDING.  373 

"Sim,  take  the  Gin'ral,  feed  him  well — and,  Sim — you  may 
kiss  me.  I  don't  care  if  Grandmother  Derwent  and  Jane  do  sec 
you." 

"  Sim  gave  her  a  hearty  embrace,  and  they  all  entered  the 
house,  where  Aunt  Polly  related  all  that  had  happened,  and 
bringing  out  a  blacking-brush,  insisted  on  marking  all  their  faces 
like  her  own. 

But  this  quiet  lasted  only  a  few  hours.  The  Indians,  in  total 
disregard  of  the  terms  of  the  capitulation,  began  plundering  and 
setting  on  fire  all  the  houses  in  the  district. 


CHAPTER    LI. 

THE     DOUBLE      WEDDING. 

In  a  few  hours  after  Aunt  Polly's  return  home,  the  missionary 
came  to  the  tavern,  looking  more  haggard  than  he  had  ever  ap 
peared  before.  He  inquired  in  a  tremulous  voice  after  Mary, 
and  when  be  found  her  lying  pale  and  exhausted  on  Aunt  Polly's 
bed,  but  wir.h  an  expression  of  sublime  thankfulness  on  her  face, 
the  tears  absolutely  swelled  into  his  eyes. 

"  Are  you  ill — are  you  hurt  ?"  inquired  the  young  girl,  reach 
ing  forth  her  hand. 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"And  the  lady — that  beautiful  white  queen — did  you  find  her 
at  last.  I  was  almost  sure  that  she  passed  me  as  I  ran 
towards  the  river  ;  but  you  could  not  believe  it.  Oh,  tell  me, 
did  you  hear  nothing  about  her  or  the  Indian  girl  ?" 

"  I  saw  them  both  ;  one  is  unhurt,  the  other" 

"  The  other — not  her,  not  her  I  Oh,  do  not  tell  me  that  she 
has  come  to  harm  !" 

"  I  found  her  wounded — not  mortally,  I  hope  and  believe  ; 


374:  MARY      DEKWENT. 

but  she  was  forced  from  me  while  insensible,  and  carried  away 
by  the  savages  ;  but  God  is  merciful,  my  child,  and  she  has 
learned  to  trust  in  him." 

Mary  had  turned  her  face  on  the  pillow,  and  was  weeping 
bitterly. 

"  Mary,  my  child,  be  comforted." 

His  voice  thrilled  her  soul  with  its  sorrowful  tenderness. 

"  My  child  I  Oh,  that  is  a  sweet,  holy  word.  She  called  me 
her  child  in  the  same  way,  and  my  heart  trembled  within  me  as 
it  does  now." 

The  missionary  stretched  forth  his  arms  as  if  to  gather  the 
gentle  girl  to  his  bosom,  but  checked  himself  with  an  effort  that 
shook  his  whole  frame,  and  seating  himself  by  the  bed,  began  to 
talk  hopefully  to  her. 

"  You  are  safe  here,  at  least  for  the  present,"  he  said. 
"  Young  Butler  has  taken  this  house  under  his  protection  from 
some  kindness  to  the  landlady  ;  but  your  sister  Jane  will  endan 
ger  everything.  Clark  has  escaped  to  Wilkesbarre  ;  he  must 
not  rest  there — Butler  would  burn  every  house  in  the  village  to 
reach  him.  Tell  your  sister  to  be  in  readiness  for  instant  flight. 
I  will  seek  for  Edward  Clark,  bring  him  here,  and  perform  the 
marriage  ceremony,  that  they  can  depart  in  company,  and  join 
the  unhappy  fugitives  that  are  now  in  the  mountains." 

Mary  arose  at  once. 

"  We  will  be  ready,"  she  said,  with  quiet  firmness. 

"  No,  not  you,  or  the  old  lady  ;  for  you,  there  is  no  danger." 
,  "  But  my  sister  ?" 

"  She  will  be  with  her  husband,  and  I  have  need  of  you." 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  Mary's  cheek.  Spite  of  danger  and 
death,  her  heart  would  betray  its  secret  in  that  delicate  color. 

"  I  have  great  need  of  you,  for  we  must  seek  out  that  strange 
lady  together." 

Her  eyes  brightened. 

"  Seek  her  ?  can  we  ever  hope  to  know  who  she  is,  and  why 
she  affects  every  one  so  strangely  ?" 


THE     DOUBLE     WEDDING.  375 

"  Yes.  You  shall  learn  everything  soon,  Mary — only  be  pa 
tient  and  trust  in  me  a  little  longer.  Now,  farewell  for  an  hour 
or  so.  Tell  Jane  to  have  all  things  in  readiness  against  my 
return." 

"We  will  obey  you,"  she  replied  ;  and  without  speaking  to 
the  rest,  he  left  the  house. 

When  Aunt  Polly  heard  the  object  of  his  visit,  she  was  great 
ly  excited.  If  it  was  dangerous  for  an  individual  to  remain  sin 
gle  in  such  perilous  times,  she  thought,  for  her  part,  that  one 
person  was  just  as  much  to  be  considered  as  another. 

She  wasn't  so  certain  of  her  house  being  kept  over  her  head,  and 
if  her  visitors  couldn't  feel  safe  without  getting  married,  she  cer 
tainly  should  be  scared  out  of  her  seven  senses.  Just  as  if  But 
ler  wouldn't  have  as  much  spite  against  any  other  single  woman 
as  Jane  Derweut — indeed  ! 

Sim,  who  had  just  come  from  the  barn,  where  he  had  bounti 
fully  provided  for  General  Washington,  heard  the  latter  part 
of  this  speech  with  some  dismay,  but  recovered  himself  imme 
diately,  and  signified  that  he  was  ready  to  stand  up  to  the  mark 
whenever  Miss  Carter  spoke  the  word. 

Directly,  there  was  such  a  rummaging  in  the  old  chest  of 
drawers,  up  stairs,  as  hadn't  been  known  since  they  first  held 
that  setting  out.  Half  a  dozen  old  silk  dresses  were  taken  out 
and  tried  on  ;  a  new  pair  of  morocco  shoes  were  fitted  over  the 
fine  homespun  stockings,  provided  for  this  interesting  occasion 
thirty  years  before,  and  after  a  reasonable  delay,  the  energetic 
spinster  made  her  appearance,  clothed  in  a  light  green  silk,  with 
a  waist  three  inches  long  under  the  arms,  and  a  skirt  gored 
like  an  umbrella  cover.  The  dainty  fashion  with  which  she  en 
tered  the  room  where  Jane  Derwent  sat,  in  her  soiled  and  dreary. 
Jooking  white  dress,  would  have  made  even  the  missionary  smile 
had  he  been  there,  heavy  as  his  heart  was. 

"  I  calkerlate  they  won't  find  us  back'ards  in  getting  ready, 
Jane,"  she  observed,  seating  herself  with  great  dignity  ;  "  you 
don't  happen  to  know  if  Mr.  White  has  gone  up  stairs — do  ye  ?" 


376  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

Here  Sim  appeared  at  the  door,  with  his  best  home-spun  coat 
on,  and  a  broad  ruffle,  plaited  by  Miss  Polly's  own  fingers,  flut 
tering  from  his  bosom  like  a  fan. 

Aunt  Polly  rewarded  this  prompt  devotion  with  an  approving 
nod,  settled  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  and  observed  to  Jane  that 
the  minister  seemed  to  be  a  long  time  in  coming. 

Jane  answered  with  a  faint  smile  that  deepened  to  a  look  of 
sorrowful  delight  as  she  saw  Edward  Clark  and  the  missionary 
coming  through  the  door-yard  gate.  Mrs.  Derwent  and  Mary 
came  in,  and  a  brief  ceremony  united  the  couple  whose  wedding 
had  been  so  fearfully  disturbed  the  day  before. 

Then  Aunt  Polly  arose,  and  observed  to  the  minister  that, 
seeing  as  everything  was  so  unsartin  in  war-time,  he  might  as 
well  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone. 

The  missionary  was  too  much  troubled  for  a  smile,  but  grave 
ly  performed  the  required  ceremony,  which  made  Miss  Polly  Car 
ter  Mrs.  Simon  White,  and  placed  that  inestimable  lady  on  the 
pinnacle  of  human  felicity  even  in  that  region  of  death  and  sor 
row. 

Two  horses  had  been  provided  for  Clark  and  his  bride,  and 
within  half  an  hour  after  their  marriage  they  were  on  their  route 
to  the  mountains,  over  which  half  the  inhabitants  of  the  valley 
were  wandering,  houseless,  wretched,  and  desolate,  soul  and 
body. 

Aunt  Polly,  whose  fears  had  entirely  left  her  after  she  became 
Mrs.  White,  insisted  upon  supplying  Jane  with  a  warm  shawl 
and  a  home-spun  dress,  with  a  pillow-case  full  of  biscuits,  dried 
beef,  and  dough-nuts.  Indeed,  that  little  ceremony  had  so  com 
pletely  opened  her  heart  that  she  made  no  objections  when  the 
missionary  proposed  to  fill  a  flour-bag  with  similar  food,  which 
he  would  place  upon  the  back  of  General  Washington  and  him- 
self  convey  to  the  mountains,  for  without  such  help  he  knew  well 
that  starvation  must  fall  upon  the  unhappy  fugitives. 

A  few  hours  after,  the  newly  married  couple  and  the  mission 
ary  were  deep  in  the  Pocono  Mountains — the  young  people  flying 


THE     DOUBLE     WEDDING.  377 

for  their  lives,  the  minister  eager  to  carry  help  to  those  who 
were  ready  to  perish.  It  was  after  dark  when  they  came  upon 
the  great  body  of  fugitives,  and  oh,  it  was  a  terrible  sight  ! 
More  than  a  hundred  women  and  children,  with  but  one  man  to 
guide  them,  were  struggling  up  the  steep  ascent  of  the  hills, 
some  pausing  to  look  upon  the  valley  they  had  left,  which  their 
burning  homes  made  a  wilderness  of  fire.  Others  rushing  wild 
ly  forwards  towards  the  gloomy  swamp  where  so  many  were  to 
perish,  afraid  to  look  behind  them  lest  some  savage  might  spring 
from  the  thicket  and  snatch  the  little  children  from  their  arms. 
Women,  so  young  in  widowhood  that  they  could  not  yet  realize 
their  loneliness,  would  turn  with  vague  hope  to  see  if  the  be 
loved  one  was  not  following  them  into  the  wilderness.  Old  wo 
men,  more  helpless  than  the  little  ones,  would  toil  up  those  steep 
ascents  with  uncomplaining  patience. 

Among  the  group  came  a  mother  carrying  a  lifeless  infant  in 
her  arms,  where  it  had  died  against  her  bosom.  She  could  not 
stay  behind  long  enough  to  dig  a  grave  for  the  little  one,  and  so 
folded  the  precious  clay  to  her  heart  and  toiled  onwards.  These 
wretched  women  had  fled  from  their  burning  homes  without  time 
for  preparation  ;  most  of  them  were  without  food,  and  now  the 
pangs  of  hunger  gnawed  away  the  Uttle  strength  that  terror  had 
left  to  them.  One  by  one  the  faint  and  the  feeble  dropped  off 
and  were  left  to  perish.  Children  wandered  away  into  the 
swampy  grounds,  and  never  came  forth  again.  Old  people  s«t 
down  patiently  on  the  rocks  and  fallen  trees,  and  saw  them 
selves  abandoned  without  complaint. 

As  the  missionary  and  his  companions  penetrated  the  moun 
tains,  they  found  these  wretched  beings  perishing  in  their  path. 
The  minister  raised  them  up,  fed  them  from  his  stores  of  food, 
and  let  them  ride,  by  turns,  upon  the  horses,  from  which  the 
young  and  strong  dismounted. 

When  they  came  up  with  the  main  body,  it  had  halted  for  rest. 
The  little  ones  were  clamoring  for  food,  while  the  widowed 
mothers  had  nothing  but  tears  to  give  in  answer  to  their  cries. 


378  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

Into  this  scene  of  misery  the  minister  brought  his  horse,  laden 
with  food,  and  while  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  distributed  it. 
This  kindness  gave  life  and  hope  to  them  all. 

At  midnight  the  whole  company  lay  down  to  rest,  and  the 
sleep  of  exhaustion  fell  upon  them.  Then,  in  the  stillness  of 
the  woods,  rose  a  wail,  the  faint,  faint  voice  of  a  human  soul 
born  in  the  midnight  of  the  wilderness,  amid  tears  and  desola 
tion.  It  was  a  mournful  sound,  the  first  cry  of  human  innocence 
trembling  along  that  track  of  human  guilt.  When  the  weary 
sleepers  awoke,  and  prepared  to  move  on,  that  pale  mother 
folded  this  blessed  sorrow  to  her  bosom,  and  prepared  to  keep 
her  place  with  the  rest,  but  Jane  gave  up  her  horse  to  the  suf 
ferer,  and  toiled  on,  side  by  side  with  her  young  husband,  made 
happy,  almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  by  conferring  help  on 
others. 

At  daybreak,  the  missionary,  having  distributed  his  last  morsel 
of  food,  bade  the  unhappy  wanderers  farewell,  and  returned, 
with  a  heavy  heart,  to  the  valley. 


CHAPTER    LII. 

QUEEN    ESTHER'S    DEPARTURE. 

AT  last  the  Tories,  accompanied  by  their  leaders  and  a  greater 
part  of  the  Indians  under  the  command  G-i-en-gwa-tah  and  Queen 
Esther,  marched  out  of  the  valley.  Mingling  with  the  mournful 
savageness  of  the  scene,  there  was  much  that  was  droll  and  lu 
dicrous.  The  squaws  who  followed  the  retiring  invaders  were 
decked  with  the  spoils  taken  from  the  burning  houses,  the  more 
fortunate  wearing  five  or  six  silk  and  chintz  dresses,  one  over 
the  other,  and  above  these  dropped  the  scalps  taken  from  their 
victims,  which  served  as  hideous  fringes  to  their  new  costume. 


QUEEN    ESTHER'S    DEPARTURE.          379 

Many  of  them  were  mounted  on  stolen  horses,  and  one  old  wo 
man  rode  proudly  in  advance  upon  the  identical  side-saddle 
which  had  so  long  been  the  chief  treasure  of  Aunt  Polly's  man 
sion  ;  upon  her  head  were  perched  half  a  dozen  headdresses  of 
every  size  and  hue,  the  old  maid's  immense  bonnet  crowning  the 
whole,  its  yellow  streamers  floating  out  on  the  wind  with  every 
movement  of  the  delighted  wearer. 

Catharine  Montour,  still  in  the  dull  delirium  of  fever,  was  car 
ried  on  a  litter  in  their  midst,  but  neither  the  chief  nor  Queen 
Esther  ever  approached  it.  The  old  queen,  from  time  to  time,  cast 
glances  of  malignant  passion  towards  the  unconscious  victim  of 
their  cruelty,  while  Gi-en-gwa-tah  rode  on  in  stern  impassi 
bility. 

Tahmeroo  rode  by  her  husband's  side,  and  as  he  smiled  upon 
her,  she  forgot  all  the  suffering  and  horror  of  the  past  days,  look 
ing  up  into  his  face  with  proud  affection,  and  bending  to  catch  each 
passing  glance.  Butler  treated  her  kindly  now,  and  her  love  for 
him  had  recovered  its  first  bewildering  intensity  ;  but  at  length 
her  presence  wearied  him — he  wished  to  converse  with  the  chief 
and  Queen  Esther.  Before  the  discovery  of  the  secret  which 
made  her  so  precious  to  him,  Butler  would  have  sent  her  rudely 
away  ;  but  now  he  employed  art  instead  of  cruelty. 

"  You  ought  not  to  leave  your  mother  so  long,"  he  said  ;  "she 
may  rouse  up  and  require  something." 

"  I  have  been  cruel,"  said  Tahmeroo,  with  a  pang  of  self-re 
proach.  "  Will  you  ride  back  with  me  ?" 

"  I  will  join  you  very  soon,  my  red  bird  ;  but  now  I  must  talk 
with  the  chief." 

Tahmeroo  looked  disappointed,  but  he  patted  her  cheek  and 
smiled  so  kindly,  that  she  would  have  gone  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  at  his  bidding.  Without  a  word,  she  rode  back  to  the 
side  of  her  mother's  litter,  and  kept  her  station  there. 

Butler's  eyes  followed  her,  and  his  glance  rested  with  malignant 
cruelty  upon  the  litter. 

"  They  say  she  is  better,"  he  muttered  j  "  why  didn't  she  die, 


380  MAET      DEKWENT. 

and  make  an  end  of  it  ?  Then  Tahmeroo  would  have  been  Lady 
Granby,  and  I  an  English  landholder,  with  an  income  that  dukes 
might  envy.  She  shall  not  stand  between  me  and  this  fortune  ; 
I'll  pay  her  off,  too,  for  all  her  scorn  and  hatred  1" 

He  galloped  up  to  Queen  Esther  as  she  rode,  in  gloomy 
silence,  at  the  head  of  her  warriors.  The  fury  still  smouldering 
in  her  eyes  showed  that  her  vengeance  was  not  yet  satisfied. 
Bloodshed  only  made  her  crave  more,  and  she  awaited  a  new 
opportunity  to  wreak  her  hate  upon  the  people  who  had  de 
prived  her  of  a  son. 

"  They  tell  me  Catharine  Montour  is  better,"  Butler  said,  ab 
ruptly,  as  he  drew  his  horse  close  to  hers,  that  their  conversa 
tion  could  not  be  overheard. 

Queen  Esther  did  not  reply,  but  her  lips  compressed  until  the 
hooked  nose  and  projecting  chin  almost  met. 

"  You  must  be  satisfied  now  that  my  suspicions  are  true — she 
is  a  traitress,  and  was  from  the  beginning." 

"  And  will  meet  the  fate  of  all  traitors  1"  returned  Esther,  in 
a  voice  of  terrible  composure. 

"  But  the  chief  is  so  blindly  attached  to  his  wife  ;  that  he 
will  not  allow  you  to  punish  her  as  she  deserves." 

"  Allow  me  1"  The  gladiator  rushed  into  the  woman's  eyes. 
"I  am  Queen  Esther  ;  who  dares  dispute  my  will  ?  I  would  drive 
Gi-en-gwa-tah  himself  out  of  the  tribe  if  he  opposed  me  I" 

"  Pleasant  old  devil  1"  muttered  Butler  ;  "  I  think  I  shan't 
have  much  trouble  in  waking  her  up  1"  He  bowed  his  head, 
saying  aloud,  "  I  know  that  Queen  Esther  is  all-powerful." 

"  You  leave  us  soon  ?"  she. asked,  without  heeding  his  flattery. 

"  Yes.  I  must  accompany  my  father  and  his  men  to  Niagara 
— we  shall  find  work  enough  there." 

"  Go  ;  if  you  return  with  new  victories,  you  will  be  welcome." 

11  Never  fear  ;  I  shall  do  my  best.  Tahmeroo  stays  behind  ; 
she  would  only  be  in  my  way.  I  hope  when  I  get  back  I  shan't 
find  Catharine  Montour  with  all  her  old  insolence  and  power 
opposed  to  you." 


QUEEN    ESTHER'S    DEPARTURE.          381 

Queen  Esther  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  ;  her  lips  moved,  but 
she  checked  her  utterance,  though  the  light  in  her  eyes  revealed 
the  murderess  in  her  soul.  Making  a  gesture  to  Butler  signify 
ing  that  their  conference  had  ended,  she  rode  on,  followed  by  her 
troops. 

On  the  fifth  day,  the  armies  separated,  the  Tories,  under  the 
command  of  the  two  Butlers,  marching  in  the  direction  of  Nia 
gara,  while  the  Indians  continued  their  course  towards  Seneca 
Lake. 

Tahmeroo  was  wild  with  grief  at  parting  from  her  husband,  but 
he  promised  a  speedy  return,  and  quieted  her  with  elaborate  kind 
ness.  After  he  had  left  them,  Catharine  required  all  her  care, 
and  she  had  little  time  to  brood  over  her  loneliness. 

Catharine  Montour's  condition  was  a  most  critical  one,  and 
for  days  she  hovered  between  life  and  death  ;  but  the  chief 
never  inquired  after  her,  or  paused,  except  for  their  accustomed 
rest.  When  Catharine  came  back  to  consciousness,  she  was  far 
away  from  Wyoming.  For  a  while  she  believed  that  all  had 
been  a  dream  ;  but  at  length  thought  came  more  clearly  back, 
and  with  it  remembrance.  She  started  feebly  up,  with  a  faint 
cry  for  her  child. 

Tahmeroo  heard  the  voice,  and  parting  the  curtains  of  the 
litter,  said  : 

"  I  am  here,  mother." 

"  Not  you,"  murmured  the  sufferer — "  it  is  not  you  I  call  for.' 

She  fell  back  on  the  pillows,  too  weak  for  words,  powerless 
even  to  think  collectedly.  Day  after  day  she  remained  thus,  with 
life  struggling  feebly  for  supremacy,  listening  to  Tahmeroo's 
conversation,  or  the  hollow  tramp  of  the  savages  who  bore  her 
swiftly  on.  She  only  remembered  that  Murray  was  dead,  his 
cold  face  seemed  lying  forever  on  the  pillow  close  to  hers.  She 
had  a  child — a  husband — both  lived,  and  she  was  separated 
from  them,  perhaps  to  all  eternity.  It  was  better  thus,  she  felt 
almost  a  sense  of  relief  in  that  rapid  retreat — another  meeting 
with  husband  or  child,  or  even  a  clear  thought  of  one  who  had  been 


382  MART      DERWENT. 

so  closely  linked  with  her  past  history,  would  have  brought  back 
the  madness  which  a  free  life  in  the  forest  had  so  long  kept  at  bay. 
What  mournful  hours  she  spent  thus  !  Unable  to  wrestle 
with  her  anguish,  it  lay  like  a  weight  upon  her  heart — every 
beautiful  hope  that  had  brightened  her  other  life  was  dead,  eternal 
ly  dead,  now.  It  was  well  that  she  could  look  upon  her  early  years 
almost  as  another  existence,  and  the  broad  ocean  which  rolled 
between  her  and  that  distant  home  as  the  tideless  sea  that  sepa 
rates  time  from  eternity.  When  her  fever  would  return  and  fill 
her  mind  with  strange  fancies,  she  believed  that  it  was  indeed 
eternity  in  which  she  groped  ;  that  the  darkness  must  be  ever 
lasting.  At  such  times  she  would  call  aloud  upon  Mary,  her 
angel  child,  and  as  that  face  seemed  to  rise  before  her  in  its 
loveliness,  she  would  grow  calm  again,  and  fall  asleep,  taking 
those  features  into  her  dreams  to  brighten  their  dreariness.  A  fort 
night  elapsed  before  they  reached  the  settlement  at  Seneca  Lake. 
Catharine  was  borne  to  her  house,  accompanied  by  Tahmeroo  ; 
but  Queen  Esther  went  directly  up  to  her  gloomy  palace,  and  the 
chief  joined  the  general  encampment  of  his  tribe. 

The  summer  months  waned  and  deepened  into  the  gorgeous 
brightness  of  autumn  before  Catharine  Montour  was  able  to 
leave  her  house.  After  that,  accompanied  by  Tahmeroo,  she 
would  take  short  rambles  in  the  forest,  or  the  Indian  girl  would 
pile  a  bed  of  skins  in  her  canoe,  and  row  her  about  the  lake  for 
hours,  seeming  by  instinct  to  understand  her  mood,  talking  to  her 
in  that  pleasant  young  voice,  or  bending  over  her  oars  in  silence, 
and  allowing  Catharine  to  recline  in  thought  upon  her  couch 
whenever  she  saw  her  disinclined  for  conversation. 

The  girl  became  dearer  than  ever  to  the  chastened  woman, 
but  Catharine  would  not  think  of  her  as  her  daughter — with 
that  name  rose  the  image  of  the  pale  girl  far  away,  and  her 
heart  yearned  towards  her  with  all  its  remaining  life.  Tahmeroo 
was  henceforth  her  friend,  her  young  sister,  but  never  again  her 
child.  To  her,  the  thought  was  sacrilege. 

Catharine's  strength  came  slowly  back,  but  her  hard,  proud 


QUEEN    ESTHER'S    DEPASTURE.          383 

nature  was  gone  forever.  She  had  grown  meek  and  humble  as 
a  child  ;  grateful  for  affection,  almost  timid  in  her  new  woman 
liness.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  was  absent,  and  Queen  Esther  kept 
aloof.  This  was  a  great  relief,  for  in  the  silence  of  her  home  she 
could  sometimes  forget  the  reality  around  her.  She  suffered 
continually,  but  it  was  no  longer  the  stern,  bitter  conflict  of  former 
days — her  heart  bowed  beneath  the  rod  of  the  chastener  and 
found  solace  in  new  and  holier  aspirations. 

Keen  self-reproach  she  was  also  forced  to  endure,  though  her 
marriage  with  the  chief  had  been  an  innocent  one,  for  she  had 
solemnly  believed  her  husband  dead,  it  pressed  upon  her  soul 
like  a  premeditated  sin.  Besides,  Murray's  terrible  death  tortured 
her  continually.  In  the  stillness  of  that  awful  night  he  had  told 
her  of  his  regrets,  his  broken  life  and  loveless  age.  His  wife 
and  child  were  dead,  and  with  the  curse  of  unrest  upon  him,  he 
had  come  a  second  time  to  America,  accepting  a  commission  from 
the  ministry,  but  with  no  belief  that  she  was  yet  alive. 

Since  the  day  of  his  marriage  he  had  never  seen  her,  and 
when  the  fact  of  her  existence,  and  of  the  terrible  sacrifice  she 
had  made  for  his  sake,  was  so  coarsely  revealed  to  him  at  the 
table  of  Sir  John  Johnson,  he  had  started  at  once  to  find  her 
and  crave  the  forgiveness  without  which  he  could  never  hope 
for  rest. 

He  had  reached  Seneca  Lake  two  days  after  the  tribe  set  forth 
for  Wyoming,  and  following  rapidly  as  possible,  met  her  there, 
but  only  to  die. 

With  mournful  distinctness,  Catharine  remembered  every  word 
those  dying  lips  had  uttered.  She  knew  that  her  husband  had 
appeared  with  the  first  dawn,  and  that  they  three  were  together 
again,  sitting  silently  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  These 
terrible  memories  kept  back  her  strength.  Queen  Esther's  poniard 
seemed  still  in  her  bosom,  rusting  closer  to  her  heart  each  day. 
She  had  but  one  wish  on  earth,  an  unquenchable  thirst  for  the 
company  of  her  child.  To  accomplish  this,  she  would  go  on 
knees  to  Varnham,  and  then  die. 


334:  MAEY      DERWENT. 

Late  in  the  fall,  while  Catharine  was  yet  very  feeble,  she 
was  startled  by  the  sudden  presence  of  Butler  in  the  settlement. 
He  had  come  with  a  troop  of  soldiers  to  convey  his  wife  into 
Canada,  where  she  was  to  be  left  under  the  care  of  Sir  John 
Johnson  and  his  lady,  while  his  father's  troop  lay  on  the  fron 
tier. 

Butler  did  not  deign  to  soften  this  cruel  blow  to  the  woman 
whose  child,  and  sole  companion,  he  was  tearing  away  ;  but  sent 
for  Tahmeroo  to  meet  him  at  her  grandmother's  mansion.  The 
young  wife,  selfish  in  her  joy,  ran  eagerly  to  Catharine's  chamber. 

"  Oh,  mother,  he  has  come,  I  shall  see  him  this  very  hour  ! 
he  loves  me,  he  loves  me — and  will  take  me  with  him  now." 

Catharine  listened  in  pale  silence.  Was  nothing  on  earth  to 
be  left  for  her  ?  Must  she  be  utterly  deserted  and  alone  with  her 
Borrow  ? 

Tahmeroo's  better  nature  arose  at  once. 

"  But  my  mother  ;  how  can  I  leave  you,  so  ill,  so  sorrowful  V' 
Tahmeroo  will  not  forsake  her  mother." 

"  You  will  start  to-night !"  said  Queen  Esther,  abruptly  enter 
ing  the  lodge. 

"  It  is  sudden — I  am  not  prepared  to  part  with  Tahmeroo  at 
an  hour's  warning,"  said  Catharine. 

"  You  go  to-night,"  repeated  Esther  ;  addressing  Tahmeroo, 
as  if  her  mother  were  not  in  the  room. 

Tahmeroo's  proud  spirit  revolted  at  this  tyranny,  and  she  replied 
with  flashing  eyes — 

"  Tahmeroo  is  the  chief's  daughter.  Queen  Esther  has  no 
power  to  drive  her  out  of  her  father's  tribe  ;  she  will  not  go,  if 
Catharine  Montour  wishes  her  to  remain." 

"  Traitor,  and  child  of  a  traitor,"  muttered  Esther  ;  but  Tah 
meroo  turned  to  her  mother. 

"  Shall  I  go  or  stay,  mother  ?     I  will  do  as  you  bid  me." 

Catharine  looked  at  her  with  sad  affection  ;  she  saw  the  wild 
hope  breaking  through  all  the  anger  in  those  flashing  eyes,  and 
would  not  quench  it. 


THE     FATHER     AND     DAUGHTER.  385 

"  Go  where  your  heart  is,"  she  replied,  "  and  be  happy." 

"  But  you  will  rniss  me  ?" 

"  I  shall  know  that  you  are  happy  ;  it  will  not  be  for  long — 
you  will  soon  come  back  again." 

Queen  Esther  turned  abruptly,  and  left  the  lodge. 

An  hour  passed  in  sorrowful  conversation.  Then  they  were 
disturbed  by  the  appearance  of  Butler's  soldiers,  leading  Tah- 
meroo's  horse  in  their  midst.  The  girl  clung,  weeping,  to  her 
mother. 

Catharine  pressed  her  once  more  to  her  bosom. 

"  Go,"  she  murmured  ;  "  and  if  we  never  meet  again,  remem 
ber  how  fondly  I  have  loved  you,  and  all  that  I  have  said." 

Tahmeroo  sprang  onto  her  horse  with  a  burst  of  tears,  and 
rode  away.  Catharine  stood  watching  her  from  the  door  of  her 
lodge.  As  the  train  reached  a  turn  in  the  path,  Tahmeroo 
checked  her  courser,  and  looked  back,  waving  her  hand  in  a  last 
farewell.  Catharine  returned  the  signal,  and  the  band  disap 
peared,  leaving  the  childless  woman  gazing  sorrowfully  after 
them  through  the  dim  windings  of  the  forest. 

Still  Gi-en-gwa-tah  was  absent  with  the  body  of  his  warriors, 
which,  at  Colonel  Butler's  request,  were  active  on  the  frontier  of 
Canada.  For  the  time,  Queen  Esther  was  supreme  in  the  settle 
ment. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

THE     FATHER     AND     DAUGHTER. 

AN  Indian  war-trail  lay  along  the  southern  bank  of  Seneca 
Lake,  scarcely  discernible  now  that  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the 
trees  shivering  in  the  wind  ;  but  a  man  accustomed  to  the  woods 
might  have  found  sure  indications  of  a  path  in  the  deep  notches 
cut  in  the  larger  trees  at  equal  distances,  and  in  the  broken 
25 


386  MAEY     DEKWENT. 

boughs  of  hemlocks  and  pine  that  fell  here  and  there  like  banners 
over  the  buried  path. 

Through  the  still  woods,  and  across  the  glittering  snow,  came  a 
small  party  on  horseback,  toiling  onwards  with  a  dull,  patient 
movement,  which  was  evidently  the  result  of  a  long  journey  and 
severe  weather.  The  party  consisted  of  three  men  and  a  female, 
so  muffled  in  fur,  and  shielded  from  the  cold  that  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  judge  of  their  condition.  The  female  seemed  like  a  little 
child,  she  sat  so  low  on  the  horse  ;  but  the  face  which  looked 
out  from  its  hood  of  dark  blue  silk  was  more  like  that  of  a  cherub 
than  a  human  being. 

Two  men  rode  in  front  ;  one  was  evidently  a  guide,  the  other 
led  a  horse  on  which  a  canvas  tent  was  packed,  while  the  third, 
who  seemed  master  of  the  party,  kept  close  to  the  female,  and 
every  moment  or  two  caught  her  horse  by  the  bridle  when  he  sank 
through  the  snow,  or  carefully  folded  the  fur  mantle  about  her 
form  that  she  might  not  be  chilled  by  the  keen  wind  which  kept 
the  naked  trees  above  them  in  a  continued  wail  and  shiver,  inex 
pressibly  saddening. 

"  Are  you  very  cold,  my  child  ?"  inquired  the  man,  looking 
with  tender  anxiety  into  that  lovely  face. 

"  Cold — no.  This  fur  mantle  is  warm.  I  am  not  near  so 
chilled  as  I  was  yesterday,  when  the  storm  overtook  us,"  she 
replied. 

"  Do  not  be  discouraged.  This  stretch  of  snow  is  like  a 
desert,  but  the  guide  says  we  cannot  be  more  than  twenty  miles 
from  the  settlement  now,  and  part  of  the  way  is  along  the  shore, 
where  the  Indians  will  have  beaten  a  path.  If  our  horses  do 
not  break  down  under  all  this  heavy  toil,  we  shall  be  there 
to-night." 

"  My  father,"  said  Mary  Derwent,  with  a  slight  quiver  in 
her  voice,  for  her  heart  rose  painfully  with  the  question,  "  who 
is  the  lady  whom  we  are  searching  for  ?  Was  it  her  name  you 
called  upon  when  we  seemed  perishing  in  the  storm  ?  Why  is 
it  that  my  breath  comes  quick  when  I  think  of  her,  and  that  I 


THE  FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER.      387 

seem  so  lonesome  when  you  speak  as  if  she  might  be  dead  ? 
Who  is  she,  father — what  am  I  to  her  ?" 

"  She  is  your  mother,  Mary." 

"  My  mother  ?" 

"  She  is  your  mother,  and  was  once  my  wife  ;  for  as  truly  as 
there  is  a  God  to  bless  you,  Mary,  I  am  your  father,  not  in  name 
alone,  but  in  the  sight  of  heaven." 

Mary  was  not  even  surprised,  she  could  not  remember  the  time 
when  the  man  supposed  to  be  her  father  had  been  half  so  dear 
as  the  one  before  her.  She  reached  out  her  hand,  took  that 
outstretched  by  the  missionary,  and  bending  forwards,  kissed  it 
with  tender  reverence. 

"  My  father  1" 

The  word  never  sounded  so  holy  and  sweet  before  ;  tears 
swelled  to  the  missionary's  eyes  ;  a  drop  or  two  trembled  on 
Mary's  lashes,  and  froze  as  they  fell  away  like  pearls  thrown  up 
by  the  troubled  waters  of  her  heart. 

"  And  now  may  I  talk  of  my  mother — my  mother,"  she  re 
peated  with  a  gush  of  ineffable  tenderness — "  that  is  a  new 
word." 

"It  is  a  holy  name,  my  daughter  ;  when  you  were  born,  it 
kept  me  from  thinking  if  the  angels  had  any  music  so  sweet." 

"  But  my  mother  ?  I  cannot  understand — Jane — my  grand 
mother  ?" 

"  They  have  been  very  kind,  and  Jane  believes  you  to  be  her 
sister.  The  old  woman  kept  my  secret  faithfully  ;  Derwent  was 
my  loyal  friend  to  the  last." 

"  But  why  was  it  a  secret — why  did  this  lady,  my  mother,  let 
me  live  all  these  years,  and  never  speak  to  me  but  once  ?" 

"  She  did  not  know  that  you  were  alive.  She  believed  you 
resting  in  the  tomb  of  her  family  in  England,  sent  there  by  her 
own  hand." 

"But  why  should  any  one  keep  a  parent  from  her  child — a 
poor,  little  girl,  so  helpless  as  I  am,  from  the  sight  of  her  own 
mother  ?" 


388  MARY      DEKWENT. 

"  I  could  not  find  her.  For  years  and  years  I  travelled 
through  these  forests,  searching  for  her  in  every  savage  tribe, 
for  she  was  not  in  her  right  mind,  Mary,  when  she  fled  from  her 
home ;  and  I  would  have  given  my  life  to  have  carried  her  back  to 
her  country,  and  guarded  her  helplessness  again.  But  she  had  taken 
another  name — the  name  which  that  terrible  Queen  Esther  had 
cast  off,  but  by  which  she  was  still  known  among  the  whites.  At 
first,  I  hoped  to  find  my  lost  wife  in  this  Catharine  Montour,  but 
they  spoke  of  her  as  a  half-breed,  already  grey  with  age,  and  it 
was  not  till  the  council-fire  at  Wyoming  that  I  found  your 
mother  bearing  the  cast  off  name  of  that  terrible  woman." 

"  But  you  saw  her  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  as  the  dead  might  come  back  and  find  the  living  forever 
lost  to  them.  She  had  heard  of  the  shipwreck  in  which  I  was 
reported  to  have  been  cast  away,  and  believed  herself  free. 
Mary,  she  must  have  been  insane  still,  wildly  insane,  for  against 
her  own  wishes,  and  fired  with  terrible  magnanimity,  she  became 
the  wife  of  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  the  Shawnee  chief — the  mother  of  that 
wild  girl  who  came  to  us  on  the  island." 

Mary  shuddered.  "Oh,  this  is  terrible  I  My  mother,  my 
mother  1" 

"  She  believed  me  dead — she  believed  that  you,  my  child, 
had  perished  by  her  own  hand,  for  in  the  wild  fancy  that  you 
were  an  angel  that  could  help  her  up  to  heaven,  she  seized 
you  in  her  arms,  one  day,  and  dropped  you  from  the  high  win 
dow  of  the  room  in  which  we  had  confined  her.  We  took  you 
up,  crushed  and  senseless,  maimed,  hopelessly  maimed  for  life.'7 

"  And  she — did  my  own  mother  do  this  ?"  said  Mary,  looking 
down  at  her  person.  "  Was  I  straight  like  other  children  before 
that  ?» 

"  Paradise  itself  had  not  a  more  lovely  child.  She  never -saw 
you  again  till  you  lay  upon  her  bosom  at  the  spring  on  Mouocko- 
nock  Island,  without  knowing  that  you  were  her  own  child.  I 
did  not  tell  her  then — how  could  I  say  to  the  wife  of  that  stern 
chief— to  the  mother  of  that  wild  forest  maiden—'  Behold  !  here 


THE     FATHER     AND     DATJGHTEB.  389 

is  the  husband  and  child  whom  you  believed  dead,  rising  up  in 
judgment  against  you  for  this  unnatural  marriage  1'  It  would 
have  driven  her  mad  again.  Still,  I  would  have  done  it,  after 
prayer  and  reflection — for  it  was  a  solemn  duty  ;  but  when  I 
sought  for  her  at  the  foot  of  Campbell's  Ledge,  she  was  gone. 
Mary,  I  was  ill  after  that,  very  ill  for  a  long  time,  and  unable  to 
follow  her  ;  but  we  met  face  to  face  in  that  terrible  massacre, 
and  I  told  her  all." 

"  Then  she  knows  that  I  am  her  child  ;  she  will  be  wondering 
where  I  am,  waiting  for  me." 

"  Mary,"  said  the  missionary,  regarding  her  excitement  with  a 
troubled  look,  "Mary,  your  mother  was  terribly  wounded  on 
the  Island  that  night — woundt*!  twice — for  while  the  battle 
was  raging,  she  learned  that  her  husband  and  child  lived — then 
Queen  Esther's  poniard  struck  her  down." 

"  Oh,  my  mother — my  mother  !"  cried  Mary. 

"  Let  us  be  calm  ;  I  have  heard  from  her  twice  ;  she  was 
slowly  recovering." 

"  Oh,  God  is  very  good  to  us  1  In  a  little  time  I  shall  see  her  ; 
we  will  take  her  away  from  these  savages  ;  no  one  shall  tend  her 
but  myself  ;  I  am  her  oldest  child  ;  never  till  now  did  I  know 
what  a  mother  was  ;  how  pleasant  the  sound,  when  one  can  say 
father,  and  know  it  has  a  meaning.  Father,  when  I  was  so 
lonely,  why  did  you  never  say,  '  Mary — Mary  Derwent,  you  are 
my  own,  own  child !'  I  could  have  borne  everything  after 
that." 

"  I  dared  not.  The  love  of  one  being  had  filled  my  soul  with 
the  sin  idolatry  ;  God  allowed  me  to  be  smitten  through  my  heart 
and  through  my  pride  ;  but  I  could  neither  cast  off  the  love  nor 
the  resentment  which  a  wrong  that  has  no  name,  and  which 
you  could  never  understand,  fastened  like  a  viper  on  my  heart. 
I  dared  not  give  up  my  soul  to  another  worship,  and  thus  offer  a 
feeble  service  to  my  God.  Besides,  but  you  will  not  comprehend 
this,  the  very  sight  of  you  filled  me  with  a  tenderness  so  painful, 
that  I  had  no  power  to  speak.  Until  I  had  ceased  to  hate  my 


390  MARY      DEE  WE  NT. 

enemy,  I  could  not  love  her  child  without  a  pang  of  self- 
reproach." 

"  But  you  love  me  now  ?" 

The  missionary  smiled. 

"  Love  you  !  I  thank  my  God  there  is  nothing  but  love  in  my 
heart — love  and  forgiveness.  I  ask  but  to  place  you  in  her 
arms,  and  leave  the  rest  with  him." 

Mary  looked  eagerly  forwards  ;  the  night  was  closing  in  ;  and 
through  the  leafless  hickory  and  beech  trees  a  red  sunset  streamed 
along  their  path. 

"  It  cannot  be  far  off,"  she  said,  with  kindling  eyes  ;  "let  us 
keep  on,  father — all  night,  if  it  takes  so  long.  I  shall  never  get 
warm  again  till  her  arms  fold  me.  Look,  the  moon  is  rising  ; 
shall  we  get  off  and  walk  by  its  light ;  the  snow-crust  is  strong 
enough  to  hold  us,  though  our  horses  sink  through  it.  Father, 
I  feel  as  if  some  one  wanted  me  and  I  must  come." 

Varnham  dismounted,  and  left  their  horses  with  the  guides. 
He,  too,  was  stricken  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  press  forwards, 
and  penetrate  towards  the  lake.  They  walked  on  at  a  rapid 
pace  across  the  gleaming  snow-crust,  where  all  the  naked  branches 
and  innumerable  twigs  of  the  forest  were  pencilled  by  the  moon 
light  ;  the  hacked  oaks  guided  their  way  ;  and  the  winds  in  the 
distant  hemlocks  moaned  after  the  father  and  child  as  they 


THE     LAST     SACRIFICE.  391 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

THE     LAST      SACRIFICE. 

THE  first  snow  of  winter  had  fallen,  and  lay  heavily  upon  the 
forest.  The  lake  was  frozen,  till  it  shone  like  a  sheet  of  rock 
crystal.  The  Indians  left  behind  by  the  chief  amused  themselves 
in  skating,  and  catching  fish  through  holes  cut  in  the  ice.  Gi-en- 
gwa-tah  had  not  yet  returned,  and  Catharine  received  no  tidings 
of  Tahmeroo.  Once  she  sent  to  Queen  Esther's  house  to  make  in 
quiries,  but  the  old  woman  vouchsafed  no  answer  ;  and  Catharine 
was  left  alone  with  her  feebleness  and  her  weary  heart. 

One  day  she  sat  in  her  lonely  lodge,  looking  out  upon  the  lake. 
The  wind  moaned  through  the  forest ;  the  air  was  keen  and 
sharp  with  sparks  of  frost;  flakes  of  snow  came  down  at  intervals, 
but  it  was  too  cold  for  a  heavy  fall.  Catharine  Montour  was 
more  oppressed  than  usual ;  there  was  a  strange  trouble  at  her 
heart,  and  she  felt  that  danger  menaced  her — or,  possibly,  her 
child,  in  some  more  terrible  form.  For  herself,  she  did  not  fear  ; 
but  the  thought  of  harm  to  Tahmeroo  or  Mary,  wrung  her  heart 
with  anguish.  The  day  wore  on,  and  the  night  followed  cold, 
still,  and  icy.  The  moon  was  high  in  heaven,  flooding  the  frozen 
lake  with  silver,  and  turning  the  snow  wreaths  to  garlands  of 
pearls.  Still  Catharine  sat  looking  forth,  listening  to  the  dirge- 
like  moan  of  the  pine  forest  with  dreary  thoughtfulness. 

All  was  strangely  still  ;  the  silence  had  something  awful  in  it. 
The  coldness  about  the  watcher's  heart  grew  deeper,  till  it  seemed 
as  if  the  frosty  air  from  without  had  penetrated  to  her  soul.  The 
silence  became  insupportable  at  length  ;  she  arose  and  passed 
through  the  different  rooms  ;  not  an  attendant  was  in  sight  ; 
she  looked  out,  searching  for  the  guard  which  always  sur 
rounded  her  lodge  ;  it  had  disappeared  ;  not  an  Indian  was  to 
be  seen. 


392  MAKY      DEKWENT. 

The  stillness  seemed  to  increase — even  the  low  wind  died 
away,  and  the  beating  of  her  own  heart  sounded  to  Catharine 
like  the  ticking  of  a  clock  in  the  gloom.  The  fire  had  died  down, 
and  the  apartment  was  lighted  only  by  the  moonbeams  that  crept 
in  at  the  casement,  and  poured  their  ghostly  pallor  upon  the  floor 

Catharine  could  endure  it  no  longer — torment,  death,  any 
thing,  were  preferable  to  that  fearful  suspense.  She  folded  a 
fur  mantle  about  her  and  went  out,  taking  the  path  which  led 
to  the  settlement.  Midway  between  the  Indian  village  and 
Queen  Esther's  mansion,  she  saw  the  flames  of  a  council-fire, 
turning  the  snow  golden  with  its  brightness  ;  seated  about  it 
were  the  old  men  of  the  tribe,  whom  the  chief  had  left  behind, 
with  Queen  Esther  in  their  midst. 

Catharine  drew  nearer,  and  from  the  rise  of  ground  upon 
which  she  stood,  looked  down  upon  the  scene. 

It  was  a  strange  sight,  that  blazing  council-fire  streaming  far  up 
in  the  heavens  ;  that  circle  of  stern  warriors  gathered  about  it, 
silent  and  motionless,  with  that  grim  woman  in  their  midst, 
evidently  speaking,  though  she  made  no  movement  or  gesture. 
In  the  outskirts  of  the  group,  hovered  some  young  men  and 
women  of  the  tribe,  with  signs  of  awe  breaking  through  the  natu 
ral  impassibility  of  their  features. 

Catharine  drew  closer  still,  and,  concealed  from  view  by  a 
massy  hemlock,  listened  to  what  was  passing. 

"  Drive  her  forth  !"  said  the  old  queen,  in  her  low  terrible 
voice  ;  "  a  traitress  and  a  craven.  She  has  wronged  your  chief, 
and  now  only  waits  to  sell  his  tribe  to  the  rebels." 

"  She  shall  die,"  exclaimed  the  prophet  of  the  tribe,  who  had 
always  been  Catharine's  secret  enemy  ;  "the  great  medicine  has 
had  a  vision — the  white  woman  shall  no  longer  stay  in  the  tribe 
she  wishes  to  sell  !" 

"  Let  her  die,"  echoed  a  score  of  stern  voices. 

"  No,"  returned  Esther,  "  sudden  death  were  too  sweet ;  drive 
her  forth  into  the  wilderness  ;  let  the  cold  and  the  wild  beasts 
destroy  her,  and  leave  her  bones  to  bleach  without  a  grave." 


THE     LAST     SACRIFICE.  393 

"  The  queen  speaks  well,"  returned  the  prophet ;  "  it  shall  be 
so." 

"  This  very  night  !"  exclaimed  Esther.  "  Let  the  tribe  go  in 
a  body  to  her  lodge — let  her  be  dragged  forth  and  driven  into 
the  forest,  followed  by  the  curses  of  the  people  whose  queen  she 
has  braved — whose  chief  she  has  betrayed." 

A  low  murmur  of  approval  ran  through  the  group,  and  the 
whole  tribe  gathered  nearer  the  council-fire,  like  a  pack  of 
wolves  on  the  scent  of  blood. 

The  warriors  rose  in  a  body  and  filed  into  rank  ;  but  before 
they  could  take  a  step  in  advance,  Catharine  came  out  from 
the  shelter  of  the  tree  and  confronted  them. 

"  You  need  not  seek  her  like  wild  beasts  hunting  their  prey," 
she  said  ;  "  Catharine  Montour  is  here  I" 

There  was  an  instant  hush,  as  Catharine  Montour  stepped, 
with  that  calm,  sad  face,  into  their  midst.  Even  those  savage 
hearts  were  awed  by  her  fearless  dignity  ;  but  Queen  Esther  was 
less  human,  and  her  voice  woke  again  the  fierce  passions  which 
her  artful  address  had  aroused. 

"  She  braves  the  Shawnee  chiefs  because  they  are  old  !" 
exclaimed  the  fiendish  woman.  "  She  comes  among  you  with  her 
hands  dyed  in  the  blood  of  your  people — Gi-en-gwa-tah's  brother 
fell  by  her  treachery." 

Catharine  lifted  her  hand.  I  have  done  you  much  good  ;  my 
wealth  has  been  freely  spent  in  your  service;  will  the  chiefs  listen  ?" 

"  That  gold,"  cried  Esther,  "  belongs  to  Tahmeroo,  the 
daughter  of  your  chief  ;  but  while  this  woman  lives,  she  cannot 
touch  it.  When  she  is  gone,  the  young  white  brave  will  give 
you  all.  She  has  kept  it  to  herself — her  lodge  is  full  of  bright 
things,  which  she  shares  with  no  one,  not  even  with  the  widow  of 
your  old  chief.  Your  queen  speaks  no  lie,  ask  her  if  Gi-en-gwa- 
tah's  step  has  sounded  in  her  lodge  since  we  fought  at  Wyoming. 
Let  her  be  driven  forth." 

The  women  took  up  the  cry,  crowding  about  the  handful  of 
warriors,  and  forcing  them  on.  Catharine  stood  calmly  confronting 


394:  MAKY      DERWENT. 

them — nearer  gathered  those  stern  faces — horrible  eyes  glared 
into  her  own,  but  she  met  them  unflinchingly. 

"  Away  with  her,"  shrieked  Esther  ;  "  the  voice  of  her  agony 
will  be  sweet  to  the  murdered  brave." 

"  Let  it  come  ;  I  have  not  sought  death,  but  life  is  a  burden 
to  me  now  ;  you  thought  to  revenge  yourself,  but  I  thank  you 
for  this  release  from  heavy  trouble;  what  matters  the  way  ?  it  is 
brief  at  best." 

"  Drive  her  forth  !"  cried  the  old  queen,  roused  to  insane  fury 
by  the  composure  of  her  victim. 

The  whole  tribe  rushed  towards  Catharine  with  yells  and 
execrations.  She  made  no  effort  to  fly,  but  was  borne  helplessly 
along  by  the  heaving  mass.  Balls  of  snow  and  ice  were  hurled 
at  her,  the  sharp  fragments  struck  her  on  the  temples,  but  she 
made  no  outcry.  Her  long  hair  broke  loose  and  streamed  on 
the  wind,  while  the  serpent  that  girded  her  forehead,  flashed  in 
the  moonlight,  the  raised  head  with  its  open  jaws  seeming  to 
hiss  defiance  at  her  pursuers. 

Her  silence  and  her  meekness  only  added  to  Esther's  rage, 
though  the  chiefs  began  to  feel  respect  for  her  courage. 

"  Faster,"  shrieked  the  queen,  "  faster,  drive  her  deep,  deep 
into  the  woods,  where  no  trail  or  path  can  lead  her  out  again." 

Thus  fiercely  urged,  the  savages  swept  on,  dragging  their  victim 
rudely  over  the  snow.  They  passed  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement, 
and  plunged  into  the  forest,  sinking  knee  deep  into  the  crusted 
snow  at  every  step.  When  all  her  strength  was  exhausted,  and 
they  were  compelled  to  drag  her  forwards  like  a  corpse,  they 
flung  her  down  upon  the  white  earth  and  retreated,  singing  a 
low  death  song,  as  they  left  her  to  die. 

She  had  fallen  in  the  depths  of  a  hemlock  grove  ;  thick  green 
branches,  wreathed  with  snow,  drooped  over  her,  swayed  heavily 
by  the  sobbing  wind.  No  moon  could  penetrate  there  ;  even  the 
snow  looked  inky  in  those  dense  shadows. 

A  savage,  less  fiendish  than  the  rest,  came  back,  planted  his 
burning  torch  in  the  snow,  and  went  away  ;  its  red  light  streamed 


THE     LAST     SACRIFICE.  395 

over  her  locked  features.  She  felt  the  warmth,  and  struggled 
to  get  up.  The  motion  shook  the  jewelled  serpent  from  her  head 
which  uncoiled  itself  from  her  temple,  and  lay  writhing  upon  the 
snow  like  a  living  reptile  creeping  away  from  the  flame. 

She  could  not  stand  erect ;  she  had  no  strength  to  cry  aloud  ; 
but  as  all  the  terrors  of  that  lonely  death  fell  upon  her,  struggled 
fully,  and  answered  the  wind  with  her  sobs.  They  had  torn  the 
fur  mantle  from  her  shoulders,  and  left  her  wrapped  only  in  that 
crimson  robe.  The  cold  penetrated  her  to  the  heart,  sharp 
particles  of  frost  cut  across  her  face.  Her  blue  lips  quivered 
above  her  chattering  teeth.  She  crept  towards  the  torch,  and 
holding  her  purple  hands  on  each  side  of  it  in  piteous  helpless 
ness,  strove  to  warm  them  ;  but  they  fell  numbly  down,  and  with 
a  faint  instinct  she  drew  them  under  the  flowing  sleeves  of  her 
robe,  and  lay  motionless,  with  death  creeping  steadily  to  her 
vitals. 

"  What  is  that,  father  ?  what  is  that  shining  like  a  fallen 
star  through  the  hemlocks  ?  See  how  that  little  column  of  smoke 
trembles  through  the  leaves." 

Yarnham  turned  from  his  path  and  the  two  bent  their  steps 
to  the  hemlock  woods,  following  the  light.  Why  did  that  pale 
man  hold  his  breath  as  he  moved  forwards  ?  Why  did  Mary 
shiver  audibly  beneath  her  warm  mantle  ?  They  had  not  yet 
seen  that  deathly  face,  the  serpent  scattering  its  mocking  bright 
ness  on  the  snow,  or  the  crimson  robe  that  lay  in  masses  over 
those  frozen  limbs.  But  a  few  steps  more,  and  the  torch  re 
vealed  all  this.  The  father  and  child  looked  at  each  other  in 
mute  horror.  It  lasted  but  a  moment.  Varnham  swept  back 
the  hemlock  branches  and  lifted  his  wife  up  from  the  snow. 
Mary  took  off  her  mantle  and  folded  it  around  those  heavy  limbs, 
while  the  strong  man  gathered  her  to  his  heart  and  strove  to 
warm  that  purple  mouth  with  the  life  that  sobbed  and  quivered 
through  his  own  lips. 

It  was  all  in  vain.  The  love  which  possessed  no  power  over 
her  youth,  though  it  shook  his  soul  to  the  centre,  had  not  force 


396  MAKY     DEE  WENT. 

enough  to  arouse  his  wife  from  that  numb  death-sleep.  She 
opened  her  eyes  once,  after  he  bore  her  out  to  the  moonlight, 
and,  for  an  instant,  Varnham  felt  her  heart  beat  against  his  own. 
A  cry  of  exquisite  pain  broke  from  him,  then  a  tender  young  voice 
sobbed  out — 

"  Mother— mother  1" 

A  gleam  of  light  stole  over  Catharine's  face.  It  would  have 
been  a  smile,  but  those  features  were  frozen  into  marble,  and 
had  lost  all  power  of  expression  ;  but  the  eyes  had  meaning  in 
them  still.  They  turned  upon  that  -angel  face,  and  filling  with 
love-light  froze  in  their  sockets. 

Mile  after  mile  Varnham  carried  his  marble  burden  through 
the  forest  and  across  a  bend  of  the  lake,  till  he  stood,  in  the 
grey  of  that  cold  winter's  morning,  in  the  hall  of  Queen  Esther's 
dwelling. 

A  troop  of  Indians,  fresh  from  the  war-path,  were  drawn  up 
before  the  entrance,  and  among  them  was  Gi-en-gwa-tah, 
mounted  on  his  war-horse.  The  chief  never  would  wear  paint, 
like  meaner  men  of  his  tribe,  and  those  who  looked  on  him  at 
tentively  saw  that  his  face  was  haggard  and  his  eagle  eyes 
heavy. 

Queen  Esther  met  him  at  the  door. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "you  and  the  young  brave  have  talked 
with  serpent  tongues.  The  Great  Spirit  has  been  whispering  in 
my  heart,  and  it  beats  loud.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  will  be  just.  Let 
his  white  queen  speak  for  herself." 

As  he  spoke,  Varnham  glided  by  him,  bearing  the  dead  body 
of  Catharine  Montour  in  his  arms.  The  Indians,  who  had  come 
out  of  the  lodge  with  Esther,  sat  down  and  covered  their  faces 
in  sign  of  penitence,  but  the  old  queen  stood  up,  cold  and  firm  as 
a  rock. 

"  Gi-en-gwa-tah  is  weak,  like  a  girl,  but  Queen  Esther  can 
take  care  of  her  son's  honor.  See,  yonder  is  the  woman  whose 
serpent  words  killed  his  brother.  Last  night  the  Council  drove 
her  out  to  die  like  a  wolf." 


THE     LAST     SACRIFICE.  397 

The  chief  sprang  from  his  horse,  and,  striding  into  the  hall, 
fell  down  before  the  body  of  Catharine  Montour ;  the  anguish 
quivering  in  that  stern  face  struck  pity  even  into  those  savage 
bosoms  ;  his  chest  heaved,  his  eyes  grew  large,  wandering  from 
the  dead  to  his  mother,  with  such  wild  sorrow  that  even  she 
turned  away,  half  repenting  what  she  had  done. 

All  at  once  he  fell  upon  his  face,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of 
grief,  which  shook  his  frame  like  a  thunder  gust.  Once  and 
again  the  storm  swept  over  him,  then  he  arose,  terrible  in  the 
majesty  of  his  grief,  and,  passing  the  old  queen,  mounted  his 
war-horse.  A  small  golden  bugle,  the  gift  of  Catharine  Montour, 
hung  over  his  bosom  ;  he  lifted  it  and  sent  forth  a  blast  which 
brought  every  warrior  in  the  settlement  around  him. 

"Warriors,"  he  said,  "this  is  no  longer  my  home.  That 
woman  is  not  my  mother,  but  the  murderess  of  my  wife.  Let 
every  man  who  went  with  her  into  the  forest,  last  night,  step  to 
her  side.  Neither  they  nor  their  leader  are  longer  of  our  tribe. 
I  leave  her  to  the  Great  Spirit,  whose  curse  shall  hang  about  her 
as  lightning  strikes  an  old  hemlock  dead  at  the  top.  Warriors, 
let  us  depart." 

The  chief  wheeled  his  horse,  the  tribe  fell  into  order,  and  while 
Queen  Esther  stood  like  a  pillar  of  stone,  with  the  last  human 
feeling  in  her  bosom  struck  dead  at  the  root,  the  whole  tribe, 
save  those  who  had  partaken  of  her  crime,  filed  into  the  war-trail, 
from  which  they  never  returned  again. 


398  MARY     DERWENT. 

CHAPTER    LV. 

THE     INHERITANCE. 

"  LOOK,  look,  Tahmeroo,  yonder  is  your  home  !  To  the  right, 
to  the  left,  on  either  side,  from  horizon  to  horizon  the  land  is 
yours.  1" 

It  was  Walter  Butler's  voice,  exultant  and  loud,  addressing 
his  wife  as  they  came  in  sight  of  Ashton. 

Tahmeroo  leaned  out  of  the  carriage,  and  looked  around,  with 
a  glow  of  proud  delight.  How  different  this  scene  from  the 
broad  forests  of  her  native  land — how  calm  and  beautiful  lay  the 
hills  and  fields,  rolling  westward  from  the  eminence  upon  which 
they  had  paused  1  A  thousand  blossoming  hedges  chained  them 
together,  as  it  were,  with  massive  and  interminable  garlands. 
She  saw  clumps  of  trees,  vividly  green  cascades  and  brooks  mean 
dering  towards  the  one  bright  stream  which  cut  the  lands  in 
twain.  Upon  the  opposite  hill-side  stood  a  mansion,  vast,  state 
ly  and  old,  towering  upwards  from  a  park  of  fine  oaks,  and  chest 
nuts  heavy  with  flowers.  A  prince  might  have  looked  proudly 
on  a  domain  like  that  without  asking  for  more. 

"  And  is  this  all  mine — my  own,  to  do  with  as  I  please  ?"  said 
Tahmeroo,  turning  her  brilliant  eyes  from  the  landscape  to  But 
ler's  face.  "  That  pretty  village,  the  old  church,  and  all  ?" 

"Yes,  my  red  bird,  you  are  mistress  here — everything  is 
yours." 

"  Not  so,"  answered  Tahmeroo,  and  her  bright  eyes  filled. 
"  What  is  Tahmeroo  without  her  husband  ?  it  is  his,  everything 
— Tahmeroo  wants  nothing  but  his  love." 

"  But  words  cannot  convey  property,  my  bird  ;  it  takes  yel 
low  parchment  and  wax,  and  the  signing  of  names  to  change  an 
estate." 

"  But  there  must  be  plenty  of  parchment  in  that  grand  old 


THE     INHERITANCE.  399 

house,  and,  thank  the  Great  Spirit,  Tahmeroo  can  write  beauti 
fully,  like  Catharine  her  mother.  She  will  not  shame  the  white 
brave  in  his  new  home — he  shall  yet  be  a  great  chief  among 
these  proud  people." 

"  And  you  will  do  this  willingly,  my  wild-rose  T'  cried  Butler, 
with  a  glitter  of  the  eyes  from  which  even  the  confiding  wife  had 
learned  to  shrink.  "  It  will  be  easily  done  ;  the  entailed  portion 
of  the  estates  are  large  enough  for  any  woman  ;  as  for  the 
rest " 

"  Let  the  man  drive  quick  that  we  may  find  the  parchment," 
answered  Tahmeroo,  eager  to  sacrifice  her  wealth. 

Butler  repeated  her  orders  to  the  coachman,  and  the  carriage, 
with  its  outriders — for  Butler  took  state  upon  himself  immediate 
ly  on  reaching  England — dashed  forwards,  and  soon  drew  up  be 
fore  the  lordly  old  mansion.  The  door  swung  open — a  crowd  of 
servants  stood  ranged  in  the  hall,  and  as  Tahmeroo  entered  the 
mansipn  a  score  of  voices  hailed  her  as  the  lady  of  Ashton. 

The  next  day  Butler  went  back  to  London  in  order  to  take 
legal  steps  for  the  transfer  of  his  wife's  property.  For  three 
weeks  Tahmeroo  wandered  restlessly  through  the  apartments  of 
her  new  home,  which  had  all  the  loneliness  of  the  forest  without 
its  freedom.  She  was  like  a  wild  bird,  and  fled  with  shy  timidity 
from  the  attendants  when  they  came  to  take  her  orders.  How 
often  during  those  weeks  did  she  sigh  for  her  own  savage  home 
at  the  head  of  Seneca  Lake. 

At  last  Butler  returned,  accompanied  by  a  couple  of  the  worst 
class  of  London  lawyers,  and  a  company  of  reckless  young  men, 
whom  he  persuaded  Tahmeroo  were  necessary  witnesses  to  the 
transfer  she  was  so  anxious  to  make.  These  men,  who  came  down 
more  out  of  curiosity  to  see  the  wild  forest  girl  who  had  turned 
out  a  countess  than  from  any  other  motive,  were  assembled  iu 
the  library,  a  vast  apartment,  whose  tarnished  gilding  and  faded 
draperies  bespoke  the  long  disuse  that  had  fallen  upon  its  mag 
nificence. 

Tahmeroo,  in  her  wild-wood  innocence,  received  her  husband's 


4:00  MAEY      DEKWENT. 

guests  with  genuine  Indian  hospitality.  She  was  eager  to  com 
plete  the  deeds  which  would  make  her  lord  a  chief  among  them, 
and  was  bright  with  thankfulness  for  this  opportunity  to  prove 
her  love. 

The  entail  of  the  Granby  estates  covered  only  an  unimpor 
tant  portion  of  the  property,  and  when  Tahmeroo  was  so  eager 
to  sign  the  deed  which  put  Butler  in  possession,  she  was  divest 
ing  her  rank  of  all  its  appurtenances,  and  sweeping  the  property 
of  a  proud  old  family  into  the  hands  of  a  profligate  and  ruffian. 

Still  it  was  a  beautiful  sight  when  that  true-hearted  woman 
came  into  the  room,  arrayed  with  just  enough  of  her  former 
gorgeousness  to  give  effect  to  her  modern  garments.  A  band  of 
her  own  raven  hair  wreathed  her  head  with  a  glossy  coronet ; 
her  robe  of  crimson  brocade,  scattered  over  with  bouquets  of 
flowers,  flowed  in  warm,  rich  folds  about  her  person.  She  came 
in  with  all  the  stateliness  of  a  queen,  and  the  wild  grace  of  a 
savage,  her  cheeks  glowing  like  a  ripe  peach,  and  her  eyes 
bright  with  affectionate  triumph.  She  gloried  in  the  sacrifice 
when  the  legal  men  told  her  how  important  it  was. 

A  few  smiling  dashes  of  the  pen,  and  the  great  bulk  of  Tah- 
meroo's  wealth  was  swept  away,  and  with  it — more  terrible  for 
her — all  the  power  she  possessed,  over  the  kindness  of  her 
husband. 

That  night — that  very  night — while  the  ink  was  scarcely  dry 
upon  those  parchments,  he  turned  sullenly  from  her  when  she  spoke 
of  the  happy  life  they  should  lead  in  that  beautiful  home,  and 
muttered  something  which  cut  her  to  the  heart,  about  encum 
brances  being  attached  to  everything  he  touched. 

When  the  deeds  were  signed  which  made  Tahmeroo  her  hus 
band's  slave  again,  the  young  landholder  and  his  guests  sat 
down  for  a  grand  carouse,  over  which  that  queenly  young  wife 
was  to  preside. 

The  very  presence  of  these  men  in  the  house  was  an  insult  to 
its  mistress  ;  but  what  did  she  know  of  that  ?  With  all  her 
pride  and  natural  refinement,  she  had  yet  to  learn  that  civiliza- 


THE     INHERITANCE.  401 

tion  sometimes  exhibits  phases  at  which  the  savage  would  blush. 
But  ignorant  as  she  was  of  all  this,  with  the  intuition  of  a  deli 
cate  nature,  she  felt  the  coarseness  of  their  manners  and  the  ab 
sence  of  all  that  respect  with  which  her  father's  tribe  had  ever 
surrounded  her.  Looking  upon  her  as  a  beautiful  wild  animal, 
the  guests  put  no  restraints  upon  themselves,  but  following  their 
host's  example,  called  on  her  to  fill  their  goblets,  and  made  free 
comments  on  the  beauty  of  their  cup-bearer,  recklessly  uncon 
scious  of  the  proud  nature  they  were  attempting  to  degrade. 

No  squaw  of  burden  in  her  tribe  could  have  been  treated  with 
more  coarse  contempt,  than  Butler  heaped  upon  that  noble  young 
creature,  before  that  reckless  group  rose  from  the  table.  At 
last,  wounded  and  outraged,  she  scarcely  knew  how  or  why,  the 
young  Indian  turned  from  them  with  a  hot  cheek  and  eyes  full 
of  indignant  tears  and  left  the  room,  refusing  to  come  back  when 
Butler,  flushed  with  wine  and  insolent  with  triumph,  called  after 
her. 

The  rioters  about  the  board  set  up  a  drunken  shout,  and  levelled 
coarse  jeers  at  their  host. 

"  By  Jove  !"  said  one,  "  she  moves  off  like  a  lioness  in  her  jun 
gle  ;  you  will  find  her  hard  to  tame,  Butler." 

"  What  a  haughty  glance  she  cast  back  upon  us,"  said  another, 
looking  at  Butler  over  his  wine-glass  as  he  drained  it ;  "  you'll 
find  that  handsome  animal  difficult  to  break  in." 

"  Shall  I  ?"  answered  Butler,  hoarse  with  rage  ;  "  she  has 
given  me  the  whip-hand  to-night ;  come,  see  how  I  will  use  it." 

They  all  started  up  and  reeled  from  the  table,  crowding  into 
the  hall. 

Tahmeroo,  urged  by  the  force  of  habit,  had  flung  open  the 
outer  door  with  her  own  hands,  and  was  going  through  into  the 
night  air.  She  could  not  breathe  within  doors  ;  her  proud  spirit 
was  all  in  arms  against  her  husband's  guests  ;  even  yet  she 
never  dreamed  of  blaming  him  ;  it  seemed  so  natural  to  be  his 
slave. 

As  she  stepped  on  the  stone  terrace,  followed  by  a  stream  of 

26 


402  MARY      DERWENT. 

light  from  the  hall,  the  young  men  came  out  of  the  saloon,  and 
seeing  her,  were  about  to  advance  ;  but  as  they  looked  beyond, 
the  outline  of  two  carriages  dimly  appeared  in  front  of  the  man 
sion,  and  a  group  of  five  persons  were  that  moment  mounting 
the  steps. 

Tahmeroo  sprang  forwards  with  a  cry  of  delight,  embraced 
some  one  passionately,  and  fled  to  her  husband's  side  with  the 
swiftness  of  a  deer. 

"It  is  the  white  angel !  the  beautiful — beautiful" 

She  broke  off,  all  in  a  glow  of  delight,  for  that  moment  Varn- 
ham  entered  the  hall,  leading  Mary  Derwent  by  the  hand.  They 
were  followed  by  a  young  man,  with  a  female  leaning  on  his  arm, 
and  behind  them  all  came  an  old  lady,  who  looked  half  terrified 
by  the  magnificence  into  which  she  had  been  introduced. 

Butler  looked  on  this  intrusion,  dumb  with  astonishment,  for 
the  whole  group  was  known  to  him.  At  last  rage  brought  back 
his  speech  ;  with  a  flushed  face  and  unequal  step,  he  advanced 
to  meet  the  young  couple,  for  there  his  fury  concentrated 
itself. 

"  Edward  Clark,  and  you,  Jane  Derwent,  I  do  not  know  what 
has  brought  you  here,  or  how  you  have  crossed  the  Atlantic, 
but  permit  me  to  say,  that  this  house  is  mine,  and  it  receives  no 
guests  whom  I  do  not  invite." 

Before  Clark  could  answer,  Varnham  stepped  back  and  con 
fronted  tljp-^ngry  man,  with  Mary  on  his  arm. 

"You  mistake,"  he  said,  gently  ;  "this  house  belongs  to  Lady 
Granby's  daughter  ;  you  cannot  be  its  master." 

Butler  broke  into  an  insulting  laugh,  and  beckoned  Tahmeroo 
with  his  finger. 

"  It  did  belong  to  Lady  Granby's  daughter  ;  but  my  squaw 
here  will  tell  you  that  it  is  now  deeded  to  me,  and  these  gentle 
men  can  prove  that  it  was  done  by  her  own  free  act." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Varnham,  casting  a  compassionate  glance  on 
Tahmeroo  ;  "  but  she  will  fail  to  give  you  any  claim  here.  This 
young  lady  is  Lady  Granby's  daughter,  born  in  her  first  and  only 


THE     INHERITANCE.  403 

legal  marriage  ;  even  your  wife  has  no  right  at  Ashtoii,  save  as 
the  half  sister  of  the  young  countess." 

Here  Mary  reached  out  her  hand  towards  Tahineroo,  with  a 
look  of  tender  humility,  as  if  she  begged  pardon  for  being  the 
elder  and  the  legal  child  of  their  common  mother. 

Tahmeroo  did  not  take  the  hand,  but  drew  close  to  Butler  ; 
she  could  not  quite  comprehend  the  scene. 

Again  Butler  laughed,  but  hoarsely  and  with  a  troubled  ab 
ruptness. 

"And  you  expect  me  to  believe  this  ;  you" 

"  Not  without  proof ;  one  of  you,"  said  Varnham,  turning  to 
the  servants  that  now  came  crowding  into  the  hall,  "  one  of  you 
call  the  housekeeper,  if  she  is  yet  alive." 

An  old  woman,  whose  hair  was  folded,  white  as  snow,  under 
her  cap,  came  into  the  hall,  and  shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand, 
fell  to  perusing  his  features  with  a  disturbed  manner. 

"  Mrs.  Mason  1" 

She  knew  the  voice  ;  the  hand  dropped  from  her  eyes,  and 
tears  began  to  course  down  her  cheek. 

"  My  master — my  master  1" 

The  oldest  servants,  who  had  held  back  till  then,  crowded 
forwards,  smiling  and  crying  in  the  same  breath. 

"  The  master — oh,  the  master  has  come  back  1" 

Butler  grew  pale  ;  the  very  earth  seemed  slipping  from  under 
his  feet. 

11  Who  are  you,  and  what  right  has  this  crooked  imp  at  Ash- 
ton  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  am  the  husband  of  Caroline  Lady  Granby  ;  you  see,  these 
good  people  all  recognize  me." 

"  We  do — we  do — every  one  of  us  ;  his  hair  has  grown  white, 
and  his  forehead  is  not  so  smooth,  but  there  is  the  old  smile,  and 
the  old  look  of  the  eye  ;  God  bless  the  master." 

"  And  you  will  know  this  face  too,"  said  Varnham,  removing 
Mary's  bonnet,  and  allowing  the  golden  hair  to  fall  over  her 
shoulders  j  "she  is  my  child — little  Mary." 


4:04  MAEY      DERWENT. 

The  servants  began  to  weep  •  some  covered  their  faces  ;  others 
came  forward  on  tip-toe  and  tenderly  examined  those  beautiful 
features.  The  old  housekeeper  sunk  to  her  knees,  and  drew  the 
face  down  to  her  bosom  ;  then  she  looked  up  wistfully  at  Varn- 
ham  ;  he  understood  all  she  desired  to  ask,  and  turned  his  eyes 
sorrowfully  on  his  child's  mourning-dress. 

A  quiet  awe  stole  over  the  group  of  servants  ;  they  asked  no 
more  questions. 

Gravely  and  quietly,  like  one  who  takes  up  a  pleasant  duty, 
the  young  Countess  of  Granby  assumed  the  great  power  of  her 
birthright.  Her  father  had  spent  half  his  life  in  striving  to  in 
troduce  the  blessings  of  civilization  among  the  savages  ;  but  in. 
remedying  the  evils  which  civilization  had  yet  left  untouched  in 
that  rich  domain,  both  he  and  the  gentle  Mary  found  ample  scope 
for  all  the  benevolence  of  their  great  hearts. 

While  Edward  Clark  managed  the  estates,  and  his  young  wife 
brought  all  her  sprightliness  and  beauty  into  the  household  of 
her  sister — for  so  she  still  called  the  Lady  of  Ashton — the  lovely 
girl  herself  moved  about  her  own  mansion,  in  her  simple  dress  of 
black  silk  or  velvet,  more  like  a  spirit  of  mercy  than  the  mistress 
of  a  proud  name  and  broad  lands.  Her  tastes  continued  simple 
and  child-like  as  ever,  and  when  she  appeared  in  public,  it  was 
to  be  greeted  with  such  love  as  a  beautiful  spirit — let  the  form 
which  clothes  it  be  what  it  will — is  sure  to  command  from  the 
good. 


THE     ASHES     OF     POWER.  405 

CHAPTER    LVI. 

THE      ASHES      OF      POWER. 

AFTER  a  few  weeks  of  desperate  struggle,  Butler  gave  up  all 
hopes  of  maintaining  the  rights  he  had  so  haughtily  assumed, 
and  departed  abruptly  for  America,  leaving  his  wife  at  Ashton, 
for  a  time  unconscious  of  his  desertion. 

But  when  she  knew  that  he  was  gone,  no  wild  bird,  torn  from 
its  mate,  ever  became  so  restless  in  its  thralldom  as  she  did  in 
that  princely  mansion.  She  pined  without  ceasing,  and  refusing 
all  food,  sat  down  with  her  face  shrouded,  after  the  manner  of 
her  race,  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 

In  vain,  both  Varnham  and  Mary  strove  to  persuade  the  un 
happy  young  creature  to  stay  with  them,  and  share  the  wealth 
which  Catharine  Montour's  violent  death  had  undoubtedly  pre 
vented  her  dividing.  The  forest  girl  could  not  be  made  to  com 
prehend  the  value  of  property.  As  for  gold,  she  scarcely  knew 
its  use,  or  that  the  beautiful  objects  with  which  her  mother  had 
been  surrounded,  did  not  come  naturally  to  those  whom  the  Great 
Spirit  favored,  as  leaves  grew  upon  the  summer  boughs.  She 
pined  for  the  presence  of  her  husband,  and  smiled  with  scorn 
when  any  one  sought  to  console  her  for  his  absence  with  gold 
which  she  did  not  want,  and  lands  that  bore  blossoms  and  grain 
rather  than  the  mighty  old  forest  trees,  under  which  her  father's 
warriors  had  hunted  all  their  lives. 

At  last,  a  strange  belief  came  upon  her  that  Butler  had  not 
intentionally  left  her  behind.  She  had  known  him  called  away 
suddenly  to  battle,  when  he  had  no  time  to  warn  her.  Was  not 
this  occasion  urgent,  as  those  had  been.  She  would  not  doubt 
it,  in  the  faith  of  her  great  love  she  trusted  in  him  still.  One 
morning,  when  Mary  went  up  to  her  sister's  chamber,  hoping  to 
comfort  her,  she  found  the  room  empty.  Tahmeroo  had  left 
Ashton  in  the  night,  and  followed  after  her  husband. 


406  MARY      DEKWENT. 

Across  the  ocean  she  came,  into  her  own  beautiful,  wild  coun 
try.  She  was  told  that  Butler  might  be  found  in  the  Mohawk 
Valley,  leading  his  Indians  on  to  battle  again  ;  and  to  that  point 
she  bent  her  way.  Wherever  a  fight  had  been,  or  a  body  of 
savages  gathered,  she  came  in  breathless  haste,  searching  for  the 
man  who  had  cast  her  off. 

In  October,  1181,  the  poor  Indian  wife  found  herself  on  the 
banks  of  a  creek,  deep  in  the  forest,  with  an  escort  of  two  or 
three  Indians  who  had  been  detached  from  their  companions, 
and  were  glad  to  take  charge  of  their  chiefs  daughter. 

There  had  been  a  skirmish  on  this  stream  during  the  day,  and 
from  some  of  the  fugitives  Tahmeroo  had  learned  that  her  hus 
band  was  in  command  of  the  Indians.  Without  a  thought  of 
the  dangers  she  was  sure  to  encounter  in  a  running  fight  of  this 
kind,  the  young  wife  kept  on  her  route,  led  forwards  by  scat 
tering  shots  ;  till  the  woods,  now  dun  with  withered  foliage,  were 
filled  with  the  cold  gloom  of  the  coming  night.  As  she  moved 
on,  the  wind  rose,  filling  the  air  with  dead  leaves,  and  above  that 
came  the  rush  and  flap  of  wings.  The  patter  of  stealthy  feet, 
and  the  low  growl  of  wolves,  disturbed  by  the  approach  of 
human  beings. 

A  little  hollow  was  before  her  full  of  shadows,  and  with  a 
black  cloud  of  crows  gathering  over  it. 

Tahmeroo  rode  to  the  brink  of  the  hollow,  and  looked  down, 
stooping  over  the  bent  neck  of  her  horse.  From  the  side  of  a  rock, 
around  which  a  little  stream  of  water  was  creeping,  three  ravens 
soared  upwards,  flapping  their  heavy  wings,  and  roosting  on  a 
tree-branch,  sullenly  eyed  her  approach.  She  did  not  heed  them, 
for  by  the  rock  was  a  mass  of  blackness  more  terrible  than  the 
ravenous  birds  to  her.  She  dropped  slowly  down  the  side  of 
her  horse,  crept  across  the  rock  and  bent  over. 

When  her  escort  reached  her,  she  lay  with  her  face  downwards, 
and  her  eyes  open,  as  they  had  looked  on  the  dead  body  of  .her 
husband,  but  those  eyes  saw  nothing,  and  when  the  savages  lifted 
her  up,  she  felt  nothing — all  the  world  was  dark  to  her  then. 


THE     ASHES     OF     POWEK.  407 

As  if  Gi-en-gwa-tah's  curse  had  fulfilled  itself,  the  settlement 
at  Seneca  Lake  had  atoned  for  the  massacre  of  Wyoming,  and 
now  lay  desolated  ;  the  beautiful  grounds  were  black  with  ruin, 
the  charred  trunks  of  the  dead  trees  rose  in  black  groups  where 
life  and  greenness  had  been.  Heaps  of  stone  lay  where  the 
houses  had  stood,  and  a  few  bark  wigwams,  in  which  the  broken 
remnants  of  Queen  Esther's  followjrs  still  sheltered  themselves, 
were  all  that  Sullivan's  avenging  troops  had  left  to  the  old  queen. 

The  mansion  which  she  had  called  her  palace,  was  a  heap  of 
ruins,  but  some  of  the  walls  remained,  and  one  of  the  largest 
rooms  had  been  roofed  over  with  plank  and  slabs,  thus  giving 
shelter  to  that  terrible  woman,  who  lay  like  a  sick  lioness  on  a 
buffalo  skin  in  the  centre,  smitten  by  her  son's  curse,  and  strug 
gling  with  that  dogged  old  age  which  chains  the  passions  it 
cannot  quench. 

On  the  broken  door-step  sat  a  group  of  savages,  looking 
gloomily  into  the  yawning  hall.  They  dared  not  intrude  on  the 
sick  woman  without  a  summons  ;  but  sat  listening,  not  for  moans 
or  complaints — those  they  never  could  expect — but  for  a  sound  of 
the  death-rattle,  which  must  soon  follow  the  appalling  stillness 
in  which  she  rested. 

As  she  lay  thus  picking  perpetually  at  the  fur  on  the  buffalo 
robe,  with  a  keen  glare  of  the  eyes,  as  if  that  work  must  be  done 
before  she  could  enter  eternity,  a  figure  glided  past  the  Indians 
on  the  door-step,  and  entered  that  death-chamber.  It  was  Tah- 
meroo,  her  grandchild,  but  so  haggard  and  lifeless  that  the  In 
dians,  whom  she  passed,  had  not  known  her. 

The  old  woman  turned  her  eyes  that  way,  but  kept  picking, 
picking,  picking  at  the  fur. 

All  at  once,  she  seemed  to  comprehend  that  one  of  her  own 
kindred  stood  beside  her.  She  raised  herself  up  on  one  hand  ; 
the  snow-white  hair  swept  back  from  her  face,  leaving  it  stony 
and  ashen.  Up  and  up,  inch  by  inch,  she  struggled,  shaking 
like  a  naked  tree  in  the  winter,  till  she  stood  upright. 

"  Tell  him  that  you  saw  his  mother  die  upon  her  feet.     He 


408  MART      DEE  WENT. 

struck  her  with  a  curse,  but  death  is  not  so  strong.  I  grapple 
with  him,  face  to  face,  tooth  and  tooth  ;  but  a  child's  curse  who 
can  bear  1" 

She  reeled  heavily,  flung  out  her  clenched  hands,  striving 
to  balance  herself,  but  fell,  with  a  dull  crash.  There  was 
a  sound  in  her  throat,  like  the  muffled  rattle  of  chains  in  a  dun 
geon,  and  the  old  queen  lay  across  her  buffalo  robe  stiff  and 
dead. 

All  that  day  and  night  a  death-chant  rose  and  swelled  through 
those  ruins.  The  blackened  trees,  dead,  like  their  owner,  shiv 
ered  as  the  wind  passed  them  burdened  with  that  mournful  wail. 
That  little  group  of  Indians,  broken  off  from  the  great  tribe  by 
the  curse  of  their  chief,  buried  their  queen  among  the  blackened 
ruins,  covered  her  grave  with  ashes,  and  sat  down  by  it  in  patient 
desolation. 

Then  Tahmeroo  glided  among  them  like  a  ghost.  "  Old 
men,"  she  said,  in  the  gentleness  of  solemn  grief,  "sit  no  longer 
in  the  ashes  of  my  father's  curse.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  will  listen  to 
Catharine  Montour's  child  when  she  tells  him  all  the  sweet  words 
which  her  mother  left  behind.  Gather  up  the  dried  fruit 
and  corn  in  your  wigwams,  and  follow  me  to  the  great-waters, 
where  the  tribe  are  planting  young  trees  and  building  new 
lodges." 

The  Indians  arose  in  dead  silence,  and  filed  away.  As  they 
gathered  the  scant  provisions  from  their  wigwams,  the  death-chant 
was  hushed,  but  when  they  struck  into  file  again,  and  Tahmeroo 
placed  herself  at  their  head,  it  broke  forth  once  more,  and  went 
moaning  down  the  banks  of  the  lake,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
wilderness,  till  a  sob  of  wind  carried  the  last  sound  away. 


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cover.  Price  $1.00  ;  or  bound  in  cloth, 
$1.25. 


W.   H.   MAXWELL'S   WOKS. 


Stories  of  "Waterloo.    One  of  the 

best  books  in  the  English  language. 
Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 


Brian  O'Lynn ;  or,  Luck  is  Every 
thing.     Price  50  cents. 

Wild    Sports    in    the    West. 

One  volume.    Price  50  cents. 

(2) 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    3 


MRS.  CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ'S    WORKS. 

The  Lost  Daughter;    and  Other 

Stories  of  the  Heart.    (Just  published.) 

Two  volumes,  paper  cover.     Price  One 

Dollar  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
Planter's  Northern  Bricle. 

Beautifully  Illustrated.   Two  volumes, 

paper  cover,  600  pages.  Price  One  Dol 
lar  ;  or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
Linda.  The  Young  Pilot  of 

the  Belle  Creole.   Two  volumes, 

paper  cover.      Price   One   Dollar ;   or 

bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
Robert  Graham.  The  Sequel  to, 

and  Continuation  of  Linda.   Two  vols., 

paper  cover.     Price   One  Dollar ;    or 

bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
Courtship  and  Marriage.  Two 

volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dol 
lar  ;  or  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 


Rena;    or,    The     Snow    Bird. 

Two  vols,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dol 
lar  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

Marcus  Warland.  Two  volumes, 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

Love  after  Marriage.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar ;  or 
bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

Eoliiie;    or,    Magnolia   Vale. 

Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price  One 
Dollar ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

The  Banished  Son.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dolla.r ;  or 
bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 


Helen    and   Arthur.    Two  rols., 
paper  cover.      Price   One   Dollar ;   or 
bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
The  whole  of  the  above  are  also  published  in  a  very  fine  style,  bound  in  full 
Crimson,  with  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  sides,  gilt  backs,  etc.,  making  them  the  best  books 
for  presentation,  at  the  price,  published.   Price  of  either  one  in  this  style,  $2.00  a  copy. 


MISS 

Confessions  of  a  Pretty  "Wo 
man.  By  Miss  Pardoe.  Complete 
in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  50 
cents. 

The  Jealous  Wife.  By  Miss  Par- 
doe.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 


The  "Wife's  Trials.  By  Miss  Par- 
doe.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

The   Rival   Beauties.    By  Miss 


PARDOE'S    "WORKS. 

Pardoe.     Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Romance    of  the    Harem.    By 

Miss  Pardoe.     Complete  in  one  large 
octavo  volume.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
The  whole  of  the  above  Five  works  are 
also  bound  in  cloth,  gilt,  in  one  large 


octavo  volume.     Price  $2.50. 

The  Adopted  Heir.  By  Miss 
Pardoe.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price 
$1.00;  or  in  cloth,  $1.25.  (In  Press.) 

MRS.   ANN    S.   STEPHENS'  WORKS. 

The  Old  Homestead.  Two  vol 
umes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar  ; 
or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

The   Gipsy's  Legacy;  or,   the 


Mary  Derwent.  This  is  Mrs.  Ann 
S.  Stephens'  last  new  work.  Complete 
in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price 
One  Dollar  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.25. 

Fashion  and  Famine.  Two  vol 
umes,  paper  cover.  Price  Oue  Dollar; 
or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 


Heiress  of  Greenhurst.     Two 

volumes,  paper  cover.    Price  One  Dol 
lar  ;  or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 


COOK    BOOKS.      BEST    IN    THE    WORLD. 


Miss    Leslie's    New    Cookery 

Book.  Being  the  largest,  best,  and 
most  complete  Cook  Book  ever  got  up 
by  Miss  Leslie.  Now  first  published. 
One  volume.  Price  $1.25. 
Mrs.  Hale's  New  Cook  Book. 
By  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale.  One  volume, 
bound.  Price  One  Dollar. 


Miss  Leslie's  New  Receipts 
for  Cooking.  Complete  in  one 
large  volume,  bound.  Price  One 
Dollar. 

Widdifteld's  New  Cook  Book, 

or,  Practical  Receipts  for  the  House 
wife.  Recommended  by  all.  One  vol 
ume,  cloth.  Price  One'Dollar. 


MRS.  HALE'S  RECEIPTS. 
Mrs.  Hale's  Receipts  for  the 
Million.  Containing  Four  Thou 
sand  Five  Hundred  and  Forty-five  Re 
ceipts,  Facts,  Directions,  and  Know 
ledge  for  All,  in  the  Useful,  Orna 


mental,  and  Domestic  Arts.  Being  a 
complete  Family  Directory  and  House 
hold  Guide  for  the  Million.  By  Mrs. 
Sarah  J.  Hale.  One  volume,  800  pages, 
btrongly  bound.  Price,  $1.25. 


4    T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


CHARLES    LEVER'S   WORKS. 

All  neatly  done  up  in  paper  covers. 


Arthur  O'Lieary,... Price  50  cents, 
Knight  of  Gwynne,..     50      " 
Kate    O'Donoghue,....     50      " 
Con  Crogan,  tlie  Irisli 

Gil  Bias, 

Davenport     Dunn,    a 

Man  of  our  Day, 


50 


Charles  O'Malley,. Price  50  cents. 

Harry    Iiorrequer, 50      " 

Horace  Templeton,...  50  " 
Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  60  " 
Jack  Hinton,  the 

Guardsman, 50     " 

A  complete  sett  of  the  above  will  be  sold,  or  sent  to  any  one,  to  any  place,  free 
of  postage,  for  $4.00. 

LIBRARY    EDITION. 

THIS  EDITION  is  complete  in  FOUR  large  octavo  volumes,  containing  Charles 
O'Malley,  Harry  Lorrequer,  Horace  Templeton,  Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  Arthur  O'Leary, 
Jack  Hinton  the  Guardsman,  The  Knight  of  Gwynne,  Kate  O'Donoghue,  etc.,  hand 
somely  printed,  and  bound  in  various  styles,  as  follows : 

Price  of  a  sett  in  Black  cloth, $6.00 

Scarlet  cloth, 6.50 

"        Law  Library  sheep, 7.00 

"        Half  Calf, 9.00 

"        Half  Calf,  marbled  edges,  French, 10.00 

"        Half  Calf,  antique 12.00 

FINER    EDITIONS. 

Charles  O'Malley,  fine  edition,  one  volume,  cloth, $1.50 

"  "  Half  calf, 2.00 

Harry  Liorreqtier,  fine  edition,  one  volume,  cloth, 1.50 

«  "  Half  calf, 2.00 

Jack  Hinton,  fine  edition,  one  volume,  cloth 1.50 

«  "  Half  calf, 2.00 

Valentine  Vox,  fine  edition,  one  volume,  cloth, 1.50 

«  "  Half  calf, 2.00 

"  "  cheap  edition,  paper  cover, 50 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year,  fineedition,  one  volume,  cloth, 1.50 

"  "         Half  calf, 2.00 

«  «         cheap  edition,  paper  cover.  Two  volumes, 1.00 

Diary  of  a  Medical  Student.      By  S.  C.  Warren,  author  of  "Ten 
Thousand  a  Year. "    One  volume,  octavo, 50 

HUMOROUS    ILLUSTRATED    "WORKS. 


Major  Jones'  Cortrtship  and 
Travels.  Beautifully  illustrated. 
One  volume,  cloth.  Price  $1.23. 

Major  Jones'  Scenes  in  Geor 
gia.  Full  of  beautiful  illustrations. 
One  volume,  cloth.  Price  $1.25. 

Sam  Slick,  the    Clockmaker. 

By  Judge  Haliburton.  Illustrated. 
Being  the  best  funny  work  ever  writ 
ten  by  any  one  in  this  vein.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar ;  or 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

Simon  Suggs'  Adventures 
and  Travels.  Illustrated.  One 
volume,  cloth.  Price  $1.25. 

Humors  of  Falcontoridge.  Two 

volumes,  paper  cover.    Price  One  Dol 
lar  ;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
Frank     Forester's     Sporting 


Scenes  «fc   Characters.      Illus 
trated.    Two  vols.,  cloth.     Price  $2.50. 
Dow's  Short  Patent  Sermons. 
First    Series.      By   Dow,    Jr. 

Containing  128  Sermons.  Complete  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  ;  or 
paper  cover,  75  cents. 

Dow's  Sliort  Patent  Sermons. 
Second  Series.  By  Dow,  Jr. 

Containing  144  Sermons.  Complete  iu 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  ;  or 
paper  cover,  75  cents. 

Dow's  Short  Patent  Sermons. 
Third  Series.  By  Dow,  Jr. 
Containing  116  Sermons.  Complete  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar;  or 
paper  cover,  75  cents. 

American  Joe  Miller.  With  100 
Illustrations.  One  of  the  most  humor 
ous  books  in  the  world.  Price  25  cents, 


T.  B,  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS,    5 

CHARLES    DICKENS'    WORKS. 

Fourteen  Different  Editions  in  Octavo  Form. 

"PETERSON'S"  are  the  only  complete  and  uniform  editions  of  Charles  Dickens' 
Works  ever  published  in  the  world  ;  they  are  printed  from  the  original  London  Edi 
tions,  and  are  the  only  editions  published  in  this  country.  No  library,  either 
public  or  private,  can  be  complete  without  having  in  it  a  complete  sett  of  the 
works  of  this,  the  greatest  of  all  living  authors.  Every  family  should  possess  a 
sett  of  one  of  the  editions.  The  cheap  edition  is  complete  in  Sixteen  Volumes, 
paper  cover  ;  either  or  all  of  which  can  be  had  separately,  as  follows : 


Liittle  Dorrit, Price  60  cents. 

Pickwick  Papers, 50  " 

Dickens'  New  Stories,  50  " 

Bleak  House, 50  " 

David  Copperfield, 50  " 

Dombey   and   Son, 50  " 

Nicholas  Nickleby, 50  " 

Christmas    Stories, 50  " 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,....  50  " 


Barnaby  Rudge,... Price  50  cents. 

Old  Curiosity   Shop,....  50  " 

Sketches  by  "Boz," 50  " 

Oliver    Twist, 50  " 

The  Two  Apprentices,  25  " 
•Wreck   of  the   Golden 

Mary, 25  " 

Perils  of  certain  En 
glish  Prisoners, 25  " 


.  A  complete  sett  of  the  above  Sixteen  books,  will  be  sold,  or  sent  to  any  one,  to  any 
place,  free  of  postage,  for  $6.00. 


LIBRARY    OCTAVO     EDITION. 

Published  in  Seven  Different  Styles. 

This  Edition  is  complete  in  SIX  very  large  octavo  volumes,  with  a  Portrait  on  steel 
of  Charles  Dickens,  containing  the  whole  of  the  above  works,  handsomely  printed, 
and  bound  in  various  styles. 

Vol.  1  contains  Pickwick  Papers  and  Curiosity  Shop. 
«      3       do.        Oliver    Twist,    Sketches    by    "Boz,"    and   Bar 

naby  Rudge. 

"      3       do.        Nicholas  Nickleby,  and  Martin  Chuzzlewit. 
«*      4:       do.        David      Copperneld,     Dombey      and     Sou,     and 

Christmas  Stories. 

"      5       do.        Bleak  House,  and  Dickens'  New  Stories. 
"      6       do.        Iiittle  Dorrit.    In  two  books  —  Poverty  and  Riches. 

Pi-ice  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth,  ...................................................................  $9.00 

Scarlet  cloth,  extra,  .........................................................  10.00 

Law  Library  style,  ..........................................................  11  00 

Half  Turkey,  or  Half  Calf,  ..............................................  13.00 

Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French,  .....................................  14..50 

Half  calf,  real  aucient  antique,  .......................................  18.00 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc  ...........................................  18.00 


ILLUSTRATED    OCTAVO    EDITION. 

THIS  EDITION1  IS  IN  THIRTEEN  VOLUMES,  and  is  printed  on  very  thick 
and  fine  white  paper,  and  is  profusely  illustrated  with  all  the  original  Illustrations 
by  Cruikshank,  Alfred  Crowquill,  Phiz,  etc.,  from  the  original  London  editions,  on 
copper,  steel,  and  wood.  Each  volume  contains  a  novel  complete,  and  may  be  had 
in  complete  setts,  beautifully  bound  in  cloth,  for  Nineteen  Dollars  a  sett  ;  or  any 


6    T.  3.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


volume  will  be  sold  separately  at  One  Dollar  and  Fifty  cents  each.    The  following 
are  their  respective  names : 

Little  Dorrit.  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

Christmas  Stories. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit. 

Sketches  by    "Boz." 

Oliver   Twist. 

Dickens'  New  Stories. 


Pickwick  Papers. 
Barnaby  lludge. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop. 
Bleak  House. 
David  Copperneld. 
Dombey  and  Son. 


Price  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth,  in  Thirteen  volumes, $19.00 

"  Full  Law  Library  style, 26.00 

"  Half  calf,  or  half  Turkey, 29.00 

"  Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French, 32.50 

"  Half  calf,  ancient  antique, 39.00 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc 39.00 


DUODECIMO     ILLUSTRATED    EDITION. 

Complete  in   Twenty-Five  Volumes. 

The  Editions  in  Duodecimo  form  are  beautifully  Illustrated  with  over  Five  Hun 
dred  Steel  and  Wood  Illustrations,  from  designs  by  Cruikshank,  Phiz,  Leech, 
Browne,  Maclise,  etc.,  illustrative  of  the  best  scenes  in  each  work,  making  it  the 
most  beautiful  and  perfect  edition  in  the  world ;  and  each  work  is  also  reprinted 
from  the  first  original  London  editions  that  were  issued  by  subscription  in  monthly 
numbers,  and  the  volumes  will  be  found,  on  examination,  to  be  published  on  the 
finest  and  best  of  white  paper. 

This  edition  of  Dickens'  Works  is  now  published  complete,  entire,  and  unabridged 
in  Twenty-five  beautiful  volumes,  and  supplies  what  has  long  been  wanted,  an  edi 
tion  that  shall  combine  the  advantages  of  portable  size,  large  and  readable  type, 
and  uniformity  with  other  standard  English  authors. 

This  Duodecimo  edition  has  been  gotten  up  at  au  expense  of  over  Forty-Five 
Thousand  Dollars,  but  the  publishers  trust  that  an  appreciative  public  will  repay 
them  for  the  outlay,  by  a  generous  purchase  of  the  volumes.  All  they  ask  is  for 
the  public  to  examine  them,  and  they  are  confident  they  will  exclaim,  with  one 
voice,  that  they  are  the  handsomest  and  cheapest,  and  best  illustrated  Sett  of  Works 
ever  published.  This  edition  is  sold  in  setts,  in  various  styles  of  binding,  or  any 
work  can  be  had  separately,  handsomely  bound  in  cloth,  in  two  volumes  each, 
Price  $2.50  a  sett,  as  follows : 


Pickwick  Papers. 
Nicholas  Nickleby. 
David  Copperneld. 
Oliver    Twist. 
Bleak    House. 
Little    Dorrit. 
Dombey  and  Son. 


Sketches  by  "Boz." 
Barnaby  Rudge. 
Martin  Chuzzlewit. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop. 
Christmas  Stories. 
Dickens'    New  Stories. 


Price  of  a  sett  in  Twenty-Five  volumes,  bound  in  Black  cloth,  gilt  backs,.. ..$30.00 

"         Full  Law  Library  style, 40.00 

"         Scarlet,  full  gilt,  sides,  edges,  etc 45.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  ancient  antique, 60.00 

"         Half  calf,  full  gilt  back, 60.00 

"  "         Full  calf,  ancient  antique, 75.00 

"  "         Full  calf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc., 75.00 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    7 


PEOPLE'S     DUODECIMO    EDITION. 

PiMished  in  Eight  Different  Styles. 

This  Duodecimo  edition,  is  complete  in  Thirteen  volumes,  of  near  One  Thousand 
pages  each,  with  two  illustrations  to  each  volume,  but  is  not  printed  on  as  thick 
or  as  fine  paper  as  the  Illustrated  Edition,  but  contains  all  the  reading  matter  that 
is  in  the  Illustrated  Edition,  printed  from  large  type,  leaded.  The  volumes  are 
sold  separately  or  together,  price  One  Dollar  and  Fifty  cents  each,  neatly  bound  in 
cloth  ;  or  a  complete  sett  of  Thirteen  volumes  in  this  style  will  be  sold  for  $19.00. 
The  following  are  their  names : 


Nicholas  Nickleby. 
Christmas    Stories. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop, 
Sketches  by  "Boz." 
Oliver  Twist. 
Dickens'    New   Stories. 


Little  Dorrit. 
Pick-wick  Papers. 
Martin  Chuzzlewit. 
Barnaby   Rudgc. 
Bleak  Mouse. 
David  Copperfield. 
Dombey  and  Son. 

Price  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth, $19.00 

Full  Law  Library  style, 24.00 

Half  calf,  or  half  Turkey, 26.00 

Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French, 28.00 

Half  calf,  ancient  antique, 32.00 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs, 32.00 

Full  calf,  ancient  antique, 40.00 

Full  calf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc 40.00 

ADVENTURES    AND    TRAVELS. 

Don  Q,uixotte.— Life  and  Ad 
ventures  of  Don  Q/uixotte  ; 


Harris's  Explorations  in 
South  Africa.  By  Major  Corn- 
wallis  Harris.  This  book  is  a  rich 
treat.  Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.25. 

Wild  Oats  Sown  Abroad;  or, 
On  and  OiF  Soundings.  Price  50  cents 
in  paper  cover ;  or  cloth,  gilt,  75  cents. 

EUGENE    SUE'S 


and  his  Squire,  Sancho  Panza.  Com 
plete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  $1.00. 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Paul 
Periwinkle.  Full  of  Illustrations. 
Price  50  cents. 

GREAT    NOVELS. 


Illustrated  Wandering  Jew. 

With  Eighty-seven  large  Illustrations. 

Two  volumes.    Price  $1.00. 
Mysteries    of  Paris ;    and    Ge- 

rolstein,  the   Sequel  to  it.     Two 

volumes,  paper  cover.    Price  $1.00. 
First  Love.    A  Story  of  the  Heart. 

Price  25  cents. 
Woman's  Love.  Illustrated.  Price 

25  cents. 


GEORGE 
Legends     of    the     American 

Revolution  ;  or,  Washington  and 

his  Generals.     Two  vols.    Price  $1.00. 
The  Quaker  City  5  or,  TheMonka 

of  Monk  Hall.      Two  volumes,  paper 

cover.     Price  One  Dollar. 

Paul  Ardenheim ;  the  Monk  of 
Wissahikon.  Two  volumes,  paper 
cover.  Price  One  Dollar. 

Blanche   of  Brandywine.     A 

Eevolutionary   Komance.      Two  vol 
umes,  paper  cover.    Price  One  Dollar. 


Martin  the  Foundling.  Beau 
tifully  Illustrated.  Two  volumes,  pa 
per  cover.  Price  One  Dollar. 

The  Man-of-War's-Man.  Com 
plete  in  one  large  octavo  volume. 
Price  25  cents. 

The  Female   Bluebeard.     One 

volume.     Price  25  cents. 
Raoul  de  Surville.    One  volume. 
Price  25  cents.     (In  Press.) 

LIPPARD'S    WORKS. 

The  Nazarene.  One  vol.  Price 
50  cents. 

Legends  of  Mexico.  One  volume. 
Price  25  cents. 

The    Lady    of    Albarone  5    or, 

The  Poison  Goblet.  Two  volumes,  pa 
per  cover.  Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  bound 
in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25.  (In 
Press.) 

New  York:  Its  Upper  Ten 
and  Lower  Million.  One  vol 
ume.  Price  50  cents. 


8    T,  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


HUMOROUS    AMERICAN    WORKS. 

With  Original  Illustrations  by  Darley  and  Others, 

Done  up  in  Illuminated  Covers. 

Hounds.  By  H.  W.  Herbert,  Esq. 
With  Illustrations.  Price  50  cents. 

Pickings  from  the  "Picay 
une."  With  Illustrations  by  Darley. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

Frank  Forester's  Shooting 
Box.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

Peter  Ploddy.  By  author  of  "  Char- 


Major  Jones'  Courtship.    With. 

Thirteen   Illustrations,   from    designs 

by  Darley.     Price  50  cents. 
Drama  in  Pokerville.  ByJ.  M. 

Field.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley. 

Price  Fifty  cents. 

Louisiana  Swamp  Doctor.  By 

" 


author  of  "  Cupping  on  the  Sternum. 

Illustrated  by  Barley.     50  cents. 
Charcoal   Sketches.     By  Joseph 

C.  Neal.    With  Illustrations.    50  cents. 
Yankee     Amongst    the    Mer 

maids.      By  W.  E.  Burton.     With 

Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  50  cents. 

Misfortunes  of  Peter  Faber. 

By  Joseph  C.  Neal.   With  Illustrations. 
by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Major  Jones'  Sketches  of  Tra 
vel.  With  Eight  Illustrations,  from 
designs  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

"Western  Scenes;  or,  Life  on 
the  Prair-ie.  By  the  author  of 
"  Major  Jones'  Courtship."  50  cents. 

Quarter    Race  in  Kentucky. 

By  W.  T.  Porter,  Esq.     With  Illustra 
tions  by  Darley.    Price  Fifty  cents. 

Sol.  Smith's    Theatrical    Ap 

prenticeship.        Illustrated     by 

Darley.     Price  Fifty  Cents. 
Yankee    Yarns    and    Yankee 

Letters.    By  Sam  Slick,  alias  Judge 

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